The Sound of My Voice
by Greenlips24
Summary: Someone from the very distant past is seeking attention. Why is the past encroaching on the present? This AU story starts in 2005, but the mystery spans four hundred years.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters.

 **The Sound of My Voice**

By Greenlips24

 **PART ONE**

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 **2005 – Operation Herrick - Codename for all British operations in Afghanistan.**

Almost at the end of his tour of duty in Afghanistan, his brother Thomas was killed in action.

The boy was only twenty one years old, six years his junior. Thomas had followed Athos into the Army just two years prior, which had surprised Athos initially, as his brother had not shown any interest in following the family tradition. But Thomas always seemed to sail in his older brother's wake, so perhaps it shouldn't have surprised him.

Now, five months later, the guilt was biting into his bones as he stood outside his commanding officer's room. But Athos was good at neutralising his emotions.

He had been told that quite a few times.

He was also good at self medicating.

The door opened and he was called in. He straightened up and walked to the desk, snapping to attention. Fortunately, he had anticipated the conversation he was now having with his CO, so was prepared, if not yet decided.

"Don't give me the death stare, de la Fere, no-one will blame you if you don't sign on for another tour. It's only been a few months since your brother was killed. I am at least obliged to offer you the choice and the opportunity to discuss it. I'll leave it with you. Let me know what you decide.

Dismissed."

Athos snapped a perfect salute,

"Sir," he said.

Turning on his heel, he swiftly took his leave.

Once outside, he deflated, and headed back to his quarters.

oOo

Back in his room, he lay on his bed staring bleakly at the ceiling.

As Captain of 1st Battalion of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Athos had felt it was his duty to remain with his men when his brother died. The Regiment's role was Armoured Infantry and their motto was French: " _Honi soit qui mal y pense_ " "Evil be to him who evil thinks." One of their nicknames was _Lord Wellington's Bodyguards._ Tradition and duty. Two words that were very familiar to him.

He hadn't even spared the time to fly back to the UK with his brother's body for the family funeral. He knew his father, had he still been alive, would have understood his decision, because he would have _expected_ it. Coming from a long line of soldiers, his father had always known where duty lay.

He was acutely aware that at some point, he would regret the decision not to make that final journey with his brother, but for now he was on automatic pilot. He pushed it to the back of his mind, choosing to focus on his responsibilities. He was, after all, cushioned from uncomfortable family dynamics by his lifelong training at the hands of his heartless father.

He hoped he wasn't entirely heartless as a result.

He knew his Company couldn't afford to lose another man. The last two months had been particularly harrowing as their losses, through both injury and death, had been increasing. But he also knew that he was beginning to waiver. He could walk away, having done his tour, and his duty. If Afghanistan had taught him anything, it was that life was precious.

With his not inconsiderable qualifications in psychology, Athos made a good leader.

He had joined the Army through disillusion with the way his life was going. His father had been a high ranking Army man, as had his grandfather. It was assumed that Athos would follow, and although he had not intended to, the pull of his genes was too strong, it seemed.

So Athos had taken his finals, completed his Masters, put the casework for his PhD in storage and headed to the Army recruitment office to be fast tracked to officer status. With a flourish of his very distinctive name, he signed away his next five years.

And then 9/11 had happened and he had found himself on the other side of the world, in a very inhospitable place.

oOo

Now, he was at a crossroads, and the decision about his future weighed heavily upon him.

Events however, were about to overtake him.

Within a few days of the conversation with his CO, they were put on alert to assist in clearing out the town of Musa Qala in Helmand Province as a few of the Taliban were digging in. Even now, specialist bomb disposal teams were sweeping the town for ied's and their Company would be following within a few days to clear out the remaining fighters and make the town safe. It wasn't expected to be a long mission, perhaps a few days. He would have to think about his future when this mission was completed.

oOo

Athos was just completing some of the unremitting paperwork that came with his Captaincy when there was a knock at the door.

"Come," he said, stowing the paperwork in his desk drawer, glad of the reprieve.

"Permission to enter Captain," came the familiar voice, and Athos smiled, all tension draining away.

"Permission granted 2nd Lt. Du Vallon," he said, standing to greet the big man, now filling the doorway.

If anything made this tour tolerable, it was Porthos. They had clicked during their first week in Helmand, which had surprised both of them as they were from entirely different backgrounds. Porthos had joined the Fusiliers at eighteen, escaping the grinding poverty he had grown up in on the sprawling estates in London.

The loneliness Athos had felt growing up perhaps led to a bond between them, which had only grown in the past year. Porthos loved Army life and easily made friends. He had been wary of Athos when he had first taken command of their company, but had seen how the Captain had moved around his men, quietly confident in his leadership. After several missions, Porthos seemed to gravitate toward him, and eventually, Athos was sure that Porthos had his back. And vice versa.

So Athos was disappointed to learn that Porthos would not be accompanying him on their mission to Musa Qala.

"Just changed duty with Ben Elmer; they want me to train up the new recruits. Tried to get out of it, but no go."

The new recruits were sorely needed, but Porthos looked genuinely disappointed to be missing what he called "Talibanishing."

"Ok, well, I will miss you my friend, but Ben is a worthy substitute," Athos said.

"And then, we both have some decisions to make, I hear," Athos added, with a rare smile.

Porthos was in the same position as Athos; he also had to decide whether he was going to commit further years to the Infantry. Normally, it would not be a problem, but Porthos had just received an incredible letter from home. He had received an inheritance from the father he had never known, and it included a property. So his options were suddenly wide open.

In the end though, Athos did not have to make a decision.

It was made for him.

oOo

 **Four Days Later: Musa Qala**

Following ferocious fighting in the previous days, when Athos and his Company arrived they met with small pockets of resistance, but not as much as expected.

Ben Elmer had proved his worth, as Athos had expected.

Athos was amazed at how life seemed to be carrying on; the villagers seemed somewhat immune to what was happening around them. The majority of Taliban fighters had now been driven out of the village and surrounding area and life was returning to what passed as "normal" around here.

Taking a quick cautious look through the doorway of the small brick house, Athos saw a woman, cooking on a small stove on the floor. The smell was wonderful, he thought. She looked up and gasped at the sight of him. He smiled in reassurance and raised his hand in supplication, and she appeared to relax.

He was just about to pull back when a sudden blast took out half the doorframe, peppering his face with debris. Staggering back, he quickly loosened the strap on his helmet and pushed it back on his head so he could wipe the brick dust from his eyes. It was chaos, as gunfire was returned by his men, who were spreading out behind him.

"Sniper down!" someone yelled, indicating the sniper had been neutralised.

Ben was yelling at him now and Athos, still trying to clear his eyes, squinted over at him and shouted that he was ok.

Ben raised a thumb in acknowledgement and took a step toward him.

Athos did not hear the blast, as it slammed him into the wall of the house, but he did see his comrade suddenly disappear in a bloody red mist that hit Athos in the face and covered his upper body in the gore that was once Ben Elmer.

He also saw the woman in a long green hooded cloak, who was standing in the midst of the horror, totally untouched by the dust, noise and the human remains that engulfed them.

She was looking directly at him, her eyes blazing.

He very briefly held her gaze, trying to make sense of what he was seeing as his brain began to shut down and his legs gave way.

Then the wall came down on top of him, and he saw no more.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**

Thanks you for your reviews, always so very much appreciated.

Special thanks to **Deana** for her help with the technical difficulties which meant I had to delete this story and repost it. Apologies to those who had originally favourited or put alerts on, which were subsequently lost. Also, many thanks to **Helensg** , **pallysdeeks** and **lluviayui** for reposting your original reviews – you are too kind.

This is a short chapter as it was the best place to split the text. The story is all written, so I will post every other day.

 **CHAPTER TWO**

 **The Present**

 **University of London - Lecture Theatre**

"Close your eyes...relax...and just listen to the _sound of my voice_...the _sound of my voice_ that will help to relax you...all the way...deep down relaxed...and comfortable in the chair ...there is nothing of importance for you to do...except to ...listen...to the _sound of my voice_...irrespective of what I say...the _sound of my voice_...will relax you...all the way through relax you..."

God, what a wonderful voice, thought the young woman sat at the back of the lecture theatre.

She was attending this lecture under duress. Her fellow students had been thrilled at the thought of a hypnosis training session with Athos de la Fere. He was rich, handsome and famous. He had written books, been on TV. He was here, in the same room for God's sake.

She had, however, never liked the idea of relinquishing control; she didn't like getting even moderately drunk; so for her, to be asked to go into a hypnotic trance actually frightened her. Now it was happening, he was there, walking quietly up and down the aisle, having asked them all to sit comfortably with their hands in their lap, as he continued to intone quietly, inviting them all to relax;

" _...in a few moments time...you will hear me...count down from ten to one...and each descending number...between ten and one...will help you...to become...one tenth more relaxed...ten percent more relaxed with each descending number...each descending number between ten and one...will help you...to go one tenth deeper...into that wonderful...hypnotic state of relaxation...the light trance state...that will become deeper...and deeper...as we go on..."_

Trying to quieten her disruptive thoughts, she tuned back in. It was merely a relaxation session, he had told them, so they could see what a hypnotic trance felt like. But one requirement seemed to be putting complete faith in this very handsome, immaculately dressed man, with unruly thick hair, neatly trimmed beard and beautiful green eyes... Oh dear, she was hooked wasn't she. Just not on the hypnosis. She wondered if she should just get up and quietly leave, but she did not want to disturb her fellow students, who all seemed to be complying quite happily given that you could now hear a pin drop; nor did she want to disrupt the session and upset Mr de la Fere.

While she was quietly panicking, she felt a presence next to her and through her downcast eyes, firmly looking at her lap; she saw a very expensive, shiny black shoe. He was standing next to her, whilst not missing a beat, still intoning melodiously.

It seemed he was now asking them to find a safe place to drift to... and then he stopped speaking.

He had spotted her almost immediately. He recognised the physical signs of near panic. How could he not? He had been through them himself often enough. He quickly noted how his tie probably cost more than her whole outfit, including bag and shoes, and as he approached her, he bent and quietly murmured in her ear...

"I charge £250 per hour; today, for you, it is free. Please, take advantage," and just as quickly as he had appeared in her peripheral vision, he moved on, leaving a beautiful fragrance behind him.

It worked, he had appealed to the conscious part of her mind, which during the second year of her studies, was juggling all manner of debts, which often left her struggling to buy food by the end of the financial quarter. When would she _ever_ be able to afford the services of a man such as this?

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the _sound of his voice_ , and felt herself sinking deeper (that word had initially scared her) and deeper ... and before she was aware, she was in her own particular safe place, which turned out to be the beach in Polperro, Cornwall. She had spent many happy childhood holidays here, with its small harbour and enchanting jumble of cottages, exploring the coastal footpaths, and swimming in the tidal bathing pool. She realised though, that she was not alone, her parents and sisters were there too, even though her dad had died several years ago. But she was not sad; she felt joy and an overwhelming sense of peace flowing through her and felt a smile spread across her face.

She, and many of her fellow friends and students, floated out of the lecture theatre that day.

He had told them that he had done nothing, they had done it themselves. He had merely helped them quieten their conscious mind and access their unconscious, where all their memories were stored.

He knew though, that he had opened a door for them and at some point in their lives, they may wish to explore what was on the other side.

oOo

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

 **2005 Camp Bastion Field Hospital**

Camp Bastion hospital was basically a large, tented structure. Later, in 2008 it would be upgraded to a building that was more solid, with more staff. Presently, whatever its structure, it was state of the art, with a wide range of medical corps deployed from across the army, navy and air force.

There were over two hundred and fifty medical staff, including eighty five Americans and fifteen Danish nationals. These were driven professionals, passionate about their work, but also needing a level of detachment in order to do that work.

Sometimes, amongst all the trauma and hectic atmosphere, there were lulls in activity. For the staff, there was a paradox; all-out frantic activity to sheer boredom, when there was little workload. Staff had been known, when such lulls occurred, to compete then for the more interesting work, sometimes even interfering with the work of others if they had none of their own.

Medical staff could then be seen playing board games and cards. Walking past staff rooms, a television could sometimes be heard bringing a welcome break to staff. There was a huge amount of camaraderie amongst the staff, as they dealt with the emotional and physical strain of coping with casualties, many of them civilians. Here, rank was not as important as medical knowledge, so this helped to improve communication and the hospital was a well oiled machine.

It was into this environment that Porthos entered, to support his Captain. And in doing so, many of the other soldiers, miles from home, would soon benefit from the generosity of his large heart as they recuperated. And an extra pair of hands did not go amiss.

It was a surreal experience to be in such a place as, amongst all the heartbreak, life went on. People within these confines were exhausted, bored, happy, and distraught, in equal measures. Emotions ran high.

Today, it was chaos. Organised chaos. Nothing else could describe it. Medical staff rushing around, raised voices, equipment being moved and set up. Or maybe it was just his mind racing that seemed to make everything else speed up.

Porthos sat in the waiting area, waiting for Doctor d'Herblay to come out of surgery. He'd been in there four hours working on Athos, trying to put his skull back together.

He'd been told that once out of the emergency room, Athos would be transferred to the twelve bed ITU. When well enough, he would be moved to a smaller six bed ward, consisting of curtained cubicles. There was a long nineteen bed ward and several smaller ones within the footprint of the hospital. If he survived.

As soon as the call had gone up that an enemy sniper had been killed and an ied had exploded, Porthos had been on his feet and moving. When the word came that one of theirs was dead, he had stumbled into the hospital, looking for answers.

Then, when he had met the convoy of vehicles returning from Musa Qala, he'd grabbed one of the team, shouting at him –

" _Who's dead?!"_

Learning that it was Ben Elmer, he was distraught; he had changed duties with Ben to train the recruits.

 _That should have been me._

 _Not Ben._

Then he learned that Athos had been caught in the blast that had killed Ben, who had been absolutely obliterated; the horrific evidence was all over Athos when they pulled him out of the field ambulance. At first Porthos thought it was all his blood and hope died in him. But one of the medics had shouted that it wasn't, before they pushed past him and disappeared into the Emergency unit to assess the damage, leaving him standing there, unable to move.

 _I should have been there._

Apparently, the woman in the house had died as well; she never did get to finish the meal she was cooking.

Now, hours later, he was still sitting there, thinking about what he owed Athos, saying a prayer for Ben, but mainly praying Athos would live.

Closing his eyes, his mind went back six months to a mission that had nearly killed them both:

" _Porthos, stop." Athos's voice was firm, cutting through the still air._

 _Everything went quiet._

 _Everyone stopped moving, such was the command._

 _Porthos locked eyes with his Captain._

 _He knew by the look on Athos's face, and he slowly looked down._

 _The telltale sign, just protruding through the sand._

 _Improved Explosive Device._

" _Bloody 'ell," breathed Porthos, sweat now beginning to bead on his forehead._

 _Athos was as calm as he ever was, his eyes surveying the ground in front of his 2_ _nd_ _Lt._

" _Don't even think about moving," he murmured._

" _Wasn't intendin' to Captain," muttered Porthos, his eyes still locked on Athos._

" _It's just the two of us. It's Athos."_

 _He was right, it was just the two of the; the others were several metres away, but they had all stopped as well._

" _This area was cleared, dammit," Athos said quietly to himself. "Only two days ago, in advance of our arrival."_

 _Porthos was not sure he wanted to get into a debate on the matter, so he did not speak. He was just aware of his bulk pressing down into the sand. How far did they bury these things? He was doing a mental calculation and then he saw Athos take a step forward._

" _What are you doin'?" he whispered cautiously._

" _Ssshhhhh," Athos intoned._

 _Porthos could see he was slowing his breathing down._

 _Athos's eyes again swept the sand between them._

 _He took another step._

 _Porthos could feel the sweat now running down the back of his neck._

 _Athos looked perfectly cool, just a small frown creasing his brow._

 _Another step forward._

" _Christ, Athos!" Porthos hissed._

 _It was just them, so he didn't bother with the formalities of command, as Athos had instructed._

" _I know," Athos murmured, taking another step forward._

 _Porthos stared at him._

" _I refuse to die," Porthos rumbled to himself._

" _Good to know," Athos gave a low laugh, before turning serious again._

" _What are you doin'?!" Porthos asked again._

" _I am coming for you, brother," said Athos, raising his head and looking directly at him._

 _If time could stand still, it would be doing so now, thought Porthos, almost undone by that comment._

 _His legs began to shake from the tension of staying completely still. These devices were bloody sensitive._

 _The sun was blazing down now and they were in a vacuum, the air slowly being sucked out of it._

 _The sweat was now trickling down his back._

 _Athos frowned._

" _What?!" Porthos hissed, following his every move._

" _Left, two paces," Athos replied quietly, seeing another ied._

" _My left or yours?!" Porthos whispered urgently._

" _Doesn't matter, it's me doing the walking," Athos replied, smiling up at him._

 _Then the smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he took another step to his right, and another forward._

" _My left, then" Porthos said, needing to keep his concentration._

" _hmmmmm," he heard from the man in front of him._

 _Athos was slowly making his way to Porthos, avoiding the other telltale protrusion to the left of him; aware of the one directly in front of him – the one that had initially made Athos stop him._

" _So much for clearance," Athos muttered._

" _The buggers probably came back," Porthos whispered._

" _Indeed," Athos replied._

 _They each took a breath in the same moment, and in two more steps he was standing right in front of Porthos, looking slightly up at his greater height._

 _Porthos's eyes were wide then, his breathing shallow._

" _Captain," he breathed._

" _2_ _nd_ _Lt." Athos answered; their usual greeting to each other._

 _Slowly over the next few minutes, their breathing synced, matching each other._

" _Look over my shoulder; can you see my tracks?" Athos asked._

" _Yeah, yeah, clearly."_

 _Athos looked at him then, really looked at him._

 _Everything was conveyed in that one look._

 _He slowly turned, his back now to Porthos._

" _Right, follow me," he said._

" _Gladly," Porthos breathed._

 _Moving slowly, they both retraced the imprints in the sand made by Athos, only stopping once to release the pent up tension in their shoulders before carrying on._

 _With a gasp from Porthos, and an audible sign from Athos, they reached the safety of their armoured vehicle._

 _A cheer went up._

 _Startled, they both turned and saw the rest of their men, beaming at them._

" _You didn't even break into a sweat," said Porthos, his hand reaching out to grasp Athos's arm._

" _Breeding," Athos replied, dry as dust, and strode over to the vehicle, sliding in behind the wheel._

 _That was the first time Athos had heard Porthos's booming laugh._

 _For Porthos, it was the first time Athos had called him brother._

oOo

Now, Porthos looked up as the surgeon wearily approached, pulling off the Mickey Mouse surgical cap. He looked exhausted.

"Aramis d'Herblay," he said, extending his hand, searching his face with kind brown eyes, "sorry, you've been here a while, I hear."

"2nd Lt Porthos Du Vallon," Porthos stood straight, respectful. "How is the Captain?"

"Well, it was tricky, my friend," Aramis replied. "He has a fractured skull, but I believe I have done some of my best work," he beamed. Porthos felt himself relax a little.

This surgeon did not seem to work on the same lines of military etiquette as the rest of them, but Porthos was grateful as he did not think he had the energy for formality tonight.

He explained that in all probability, it had been his loosened helmet that had both caused the damage to his skull when he hit the wall, but had also protected it when the wall fell on him. He had had to relieve the swelling to his brain and then insert a metal mesh plate to stabilise the skull. He said that time would tell, but physically, he hoped Athos would make a full recovery. However, he also had a fractured pelvis, though the pelvis itself was stable. It would take a little while to heal, needing bed rest; and may leave him walking with a stick for a while.

Having only seen him a few days ago, looking fit and well, he was not prepared for his first sight of his Captain though, when he was allowed through for a brief visit.

Apart from the bandages around his head and his swollen face and black eyes, his right hand was heavily bandaged, fingers broken when his assault rifle he was holding had cannoned his arm into the wall with the blast.

Aramis explained that the ventilator was needed as he would be keeping Athos sedated until the injuries were more settled. The cage over his hips kept the sheets free from his damaged pelvis. Various cuts to his body had been sutured. Porthos didn't like to think what had caused them; fragments of blasted stone, ied or ... human bone.

 _Ben._

He sat down heavily in the chair Aramis set down quickly behind him.

 _Hell, what a mess._

oOo

To be continued ...


	4. Chapter 4

_A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out – Unknown_

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

"I know it looks bad, mon ami," Aramis said, his hand on Porthos's shoulder. "These injuries will heal. We'll move him out of Emergency and into the ITU tomorrow," he continued. "When he's well enough, he'll go onto one of the wards. I'll make sure it's one of the smaller ones. No private rooms, but nice blue curtains," he smiled.

"He'll blame 'imself," Porthos said quietly, looking up at Aramis.

Aramis frowned, not understanding.

"For Ben," Porthos answered. "He does that," he finished, reaching out and touching Athos's unbandaged hand gently, careful of the peg-like monitor attached to his finger.

"And he's gonna hate bein' like this."

oOo

Porthos wasn't aware that it was well past midnight, until a nurse came and turned down the overhead lights and pulled the curtains fully around the bed. She came back half an hour later with a smile, a cup of coffee and two donuts and silently put them on the table next to him. He managed to smile back and gratefully accepted, not remembering when he had last actually eaten or drunk anything over the past twelve hours. It was quiet then, apart from the click and hiss of the ventilator and the steady beep of the heart monitor.

In the dim light, Porthos just held his Captain's hand and prepared for a long night.

oOo

Some days, Aramis looked around Camp Bastion and just craved _colour._ Colour was _life._ And he loved life. Everything here was sand-coloured, he thought grumpily, and illogically.

Aramis was not one of those surgeons who wanted to melt into the background in green scrubs. So he wore a snazzy array of surgical head caps. He always liked to make an impression. Today it was a Mickey Mouse cap, on a yellow background. But it would be a Scooby Doo one to which Athos would awake ten days later.

Every time Athos opened his eyes, the same man was sitting there; no matter what time of day or night, it seemed. Gradually he realised it was Aramis, the surgeon. He recognised the surgical cap. Aramis had started shouting at him. Every time he drifted off to sleep, the man was there, shouting, tapping. Athos had been awake for several hours now, he thought, as it was getting dark.

He thought Porthos was there, but then he wasn't. Felt his hand being held. Then the feeling was gone. His ears were ringing. He was floating. Then his body felt very heavy, then numb. He couldn't make sense of it.

Athos could not speak, there was something in his throat preventing him, he didn't like to think about it too much.

When they did let him sleep, he had terrible nightmares, full of noise, blood, screaming.

Now he woke and whatever had been in his throat was gone, but he still did not trust himself to speak. He was afraid he would scream.

The man in the ridiculous cap ... Aramis? ...just sat with him.

It took a long time to bring him back to the surface, as gradually the sedation was decreased. Finally, Aramis was there, standing over him.

"Welcome back Captain," he smiled down at him, "Do you remember what happened?"

Athos stared at him.

"You brought me back," he whispered, through what seemed like broken glass.

The next time he woke up, Aramis was there again, but Athos's eyes widened and he tried to pull back – _the woman in green was standing behind him_. He could not see her face, hidden by the hood, but she turned and walked slowly behind Aramis. Almost gliding.

And then, she was gone.

"What is it?" asked Aramis, suddenly concerned,

"Be careful, my friend, you have a serious head injury."

"Where is she?!" Athos cried hoarsely, "Where did she go?!"

His eyes were roaming wildly around the room now.

Aramis turned around, looking behind him.

"There is no-one here but us, mon ami," he said gently.

He pressed a switch, and the head of the bed started to slowly rise, giving Athos a clearer view of the room.

Aramis was right.

It was just the two of them.

"Get some rest," Aramis said, lowering the bed, "I'll tell Porthos you are awake, he'll want to see you."

"Porthos? – he is alive?" Athos whispered anxiously, confused.

"Yes, of course," Aramis said, frowning, before understanding,

"He was not with you in Musa Qala, remember?"

Athos stared at Aramis but said no more.

Porthos must have been close by, as no sooner had Aramis left than he was there. Athos didn't remember him coming through the curtains, but he felt his hand being held and managed to turn his head and Porthos swam into view.

Porthos perched on the edge of his chair leaning in so that his face was close to Athos's. He saw the look of fear in his eyes and his stomach clenched. The machine he was hooked up to was emitting a slightly faster beep than normal. No-one had told him what had happened, it was too soon, but Porthos knew what he had to say right then. He squeezed his friend's hand and lowered his voice,

"Athos, you're safe, we've got you,"

He paused; "You've got all your fingers," he said quietly, making sure Athos was focussed on him, "and you've got all your toes – understand?" he finished; waiting, watching.

Athos's wide fear-filled green eyes swam with tears and then a shuddering breath escaped him.

Porthos wasn't going to be left out, and his eyes filled up too. Then he sniffed and squeezed his hand, and was overjoyed when he felt it gently squeezed back. He ran the pad of his thumb over Athos's cheek, wiping away his tears and let out a sound that was part laugh part shudder and felt himself deflate as the tension began to drain away.

Looking up, he saw Aramis through an opening in the curtain, watching, and they looked at each other for a long moment, before Aramis nodded, accepting what he had done, and turned away.

Later, Athos slept.

Aramis made sure of it.

oOo

Athos woke to the steady sound of the beeping machine next to him and lay looking at the ceiling, letting life flow on around him. He wanted no part of it.

Sometime later, he was staring at the blue curtain that enclosed what was now his world, when it was suddenly swept back. Athos watched as Aramis came around to the side of his bed.

"Your CO is here. Do you want to see him?"

When Athos did not respond, Aramis continued,

"I've said he can have a few minutes. He will be able to tell you what happened, and answer any questions you have."

The sooner Athos knew what had happened, the better, Aramis knew. But it was not going to be an easy conversation; he had seen too many to think otherwise. So when Athos finally weakly lifted his hand in agreement, Aramis pulled the curtain back slightly, and his Commanding Officer, Edward Millington stepped through. Aramis left, but did not go far, hovering behind the curtain.

And so, he learned the truth. Millington was straight with him, having all the relevant facts, as reported to him. It was he, Athos realised, who would write the final letter to Ben Elmer's family.

" _It is with deepest regret ..._ "

That was when Athos dislodged the lump in his throat with a sob, and Aramis stepped quickly back through the curtain, having been on high alert for his reaction.

Athos fought them. He fought them with all his strength. Only his body did not move; his fight was cerebral; all in his head. His body still too drugged to respond.

All they saw was a look of immense sadness, reflected in eyes that were too bright, pupils too big.

The one hand that was still functional closed into a fist.

Everyone retreated then, and he was left alone with this thoughts.

oOo

He allowed himself to become a stranger, drifting in a strange world.

Of course, he knew Aramis. He had spoken to him several times when his men had been injured. He had attended intense refresher first aid courses that the medical team put them through; in case they needed such skills in the field should a medic either not be with them or be injured themselves. He just hadn't seen him so often, nor realised he was so _tenacious._

"Don't you have any other patients to annoy?" he finally asked late one evening when the ward was quiet and most of the staff were off duty or elsewhere.

"I am not on the staff," Aramis replied. "I am on secondment as a trauma specialist, so I go where I am needed. Right now, I am needed here."

"Why? Am I in imminent risk of death?" he muttered wearily.

"That is up to you, my friend."

Athos looked at him, holding his gaze.

"When I detect a fighting spirit, I will leave," Aramis said quietly.

"You may have a long wait," Athos whispered, looking away.

"I don't believe in miracles, my friend," Aramis replied. "I rely on them."

Aramis smiled, and sat back. He appeared to have all the time in the world. His eyes roamed around the room. Athos watched him.

The surgeon sat forward and frowned.

"I have followed your service Captain. You come from a long line of soldiers, fighting is in your blood. And ... I knew your brother," he said then.

"He's dead." Athos replied bluntly.

Aramis raised his eyebrows at that curt reply.

"I knew Ben Elmer too," he ventured.

"You must get around – you seem to know everyone," Athos sighed, and turned his head away.

Athos heard him get up and walk toward the curtain.

"You think you know me, but you don't," Athos muttered, his throat sore now, not used to talking.

Aramis turned,

"But I have spent hours listening to your nightmares, mon ami," he replied, walking away.

oOo

Later, Porthos came through the curtains with a jug of water and a smile.

"So, are you keepin' the stubble, or aiming for a full beard?" he asked, as he walked across and poured water into a beaker.

He was rewarded with a glare.

"It suits you," Porthos ploughed on. He pressed the control that raised the bed head up, and held the plastic straw to his lips. Now that the drip had been removed Athos could drink from a beaker, and Porthos could help.

"Careful," he said. "You've had a tube down your throat for a while. Ice cream would help but we're in a desert," he added, making Athos smile at last.

The smile slipped away as he raised his bandaged hand and looked at it.

"It'll heal," said Porthos quietly. It had been on the list that Porthos had grilled Aramis about.

"Will it?" Athos muttered, an image of black and ivory keys briefly flitting through his mind.

Porthos lifted the beaker of water again, with a raised eyebrow, but Athos gave a very slight shake of his head.

"Do you not have a job to do, Porthos?" he sighed, half heartedly.

"Nah, those recruits are too raw to disobey my orders, so I've been taking advantage, and setting them tasks that keep 'em busy for a few hours at a time. As long as I show my face enough, they're happy."

"Besides, they're short staffed here, and I've had a bit of training," he winked.

Then he grew pensive and sighed, looking away, but Athos had seen the look that had passed across his face as he turned his head.

"What?" asked Athos quietly, searching his friend's face.

"It should have been me...Ben," Porthos answered. "I just feel so ...guilty – you know?" he finished, a look of such sadness in his eyes.

Of course Athos understood guilt. He also understood how destructive it was. Porthos had too big a heart to destroy it like this. Stretching his arm out, he put his hand on Porthos's forearm.

"I have lost one brother," he managed to say. "I could not bear to lose another."

And that was the second time Athos called Porthos brother.

oOo

To be continued ...


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

As time went slowly by, Athos seemed to be in a permanent groggy state, still sedated against pain, which dulled his senses somewhat. He spent quite a few hours on his own each day, save for the ministrations of the nurses. It was always evident when casualties came into the facility, as the levels of activity and energy increased. Then, he would see less of Aramis, whose expertise was needed elsewhere. Aramis would always push through the curtains hours later looking exhausted but cheerful to spend time quietly observing and monitoring his most unwilling and taciturn patient.

Aramis wore him down. It was his intention all along. He recognised the symptoms of someone brought so low they had no fight left in them. Athos became certain that Aramis and Porthos had a plan.

Porthos spent as much of his down time as he could with him, but it still meant Athos spent many hours when the time slipped by unacknowledged. Wary of nightmares during this time, he did not sleep. Consequently, when Porthos sat with him, Athos would lay listening to him talking or reading aloud with a mixture of exhaustion and irritability. Porthos let his moods wash over him, aware of Athos's hand always lying lightly on his arm, as if to ground him.

Athos began to run complex calculations through his head; he searched his mind for detailed memories, and ran through training exercises and protocols; anything to stimulate his brain whilst lying flat on his back waiting for his body to mend. Whatever he did though, he kept coming back to his own personal mystery.

And so, one afternoon, Athos told Aramis about the mysterious woman he had seen behind Ben. He had not elaborated at the time of seeing her a second time, aware he had been in no fit state to be rational, having just regained consciousness. Now he had had time to think, he felt he wanted to tell Aramis about what had happened in Musa Qala. So he explained what she was wearing, where she was standing; before telling him the strangest part - that she had been totally untouched by the dust, and the gore, although she stood defiantly in the midst of it, searching for him and turning blazing eyes on him.

After, he was exhausted, and he turned his head to Aramis and said, almost defiantly,

"Believe what you like; believe me mad, or delirious. But I know what I saw!"

Aramis had listened intently and was now running his hand along his jaw line, gently stroking his beard.

"My friend, I am a surgeon," he replied smiling. "I have lost count of the times my patients tell me they were floating above the table watching me operate on them! "

Athos had not expected that reaction and he let go of some of the tension he had built up.

"What do you put it down to?" he asked.

"I have an open mind, mon cher," Aramis replied, taking a reading from one of the machines before patting Athos on his arm.

"Forget about it, sleep now."

"But this woman," Athos continued, restlessly, "I do not believe in ghosts. But what else could it be?"

"Astral projection?" said Aramis, not missing a beat, a smile pulling at his lips.

Athos huffed, "In psychiatric terms, there is no known scientific evidence that astral projection as an objective phenomenon exists," he said.

Aramis was impressed. Not least because that was the longest sentence he had heard Athos utter to date.

"You are not a psychiatrist, you chose psychology, as I understand," Aramis said. "Why was that?"

Athos looked at him, but then he smiled;

"Have you seen the suicide rate among psychiatrists?" he said.

"Point taken," Aramis laughed.

After that, they relaxed into each other's company. Aramis saw Athos as a challenge, but gave him space. At least the Captain had Porthos to keep his spirits up. He certainly kept the nurses laughing.

Aramis had accepted Porthos as a regular in the ITU now and saw no point in trying to discourage him from visiting Athos.

Both these men were getting under his skin, it seemed.

oOo

When the nurses got Athos out of bed and upright for the first time, Aramis was there to supervise, and Porthos was hovering in the background.

Aramis was wearing another cartoon cap – this time Bambi, Disney's orphan fawn, in various poses, along with Thumper the rabbit. Looking at the image of Bambi spread eagled on the ice having failed to find his feet, Athos hoped that would not be his fate.

It was to Porthos he looked, over the shoulders of the nurses when he took his first step, and with whom they shared a relieved smile; and then they all laughed.

Today had been a good day.

"You have a big heart, my friend," Aramis said later, as Porthos left to go back on duty.

"He saved my life," Porthos replied simply.

oOo

Aramis had got under their skin too. They were all easy in each other's company now and were fast becoming friends. However, the fragility of their new found camaraderie came home to them in a brutal way when, five days later, a Chinook helicopter went down, with Aramis onboard.

They were transporting troops and equipment, and Aramis was the medic on board to bring back some wounded men on the return trip.

Athos still had enough authority in his voice to prise it out of the medics around him who had suddenly gone very quiet. Porthos came in suddenly from his latest recruit training and updated him and they both spent a very tense few hours together keeping each other's spirits up. Porthos had grown fond of Aramis too, he had spent a lot of time with him, grilling him about fractured skulls and pelvises and recovery times. Aramis had always been positive, but truthful, and Porthos appreciated that.

The word was that the helicopter had caught fire mid-air and the pilot had made the decision to bring it down. Another helicopter was on its way to evacuate them, but a downed Chinook was bound to draw attention, if it had indeed been shot down intentionally; which was the worst case scenario. If that was the case, those on board were in hostile territory and in great danger.

That particular scenario was what occupied Porthos and Athos was they waited for news.

"He'll be alright, he's Aramis," Porthos whispered. They knew then the depth of love they both felt for the happy-go-lucky caring man with a nice range of cartoon surgical caps.

Just when their nerves were beginning to shred, a young nurse flew through the door,

"They've found them! They're all ok."

Athos raised his hand, and Porthos grasped it in both of his and they felt the weight of concern fall away.

Later, an air strike would be sent to destroy the downed Chinook to prevent it falling into Taliban hands. The loss of a helicopter was a necessary but severe loss to the war effort.

They did not see Aramis for a few days following the incident, and when he did appear, he was a little subdued. Perhaps he did not realise the incident would have caused them concern. His medical colleagues had all welcomed him back with unabated relief, but he had underestimated his burgeoning friendship with these two. When he did eventually step through the curtains, he was enveloped in a silent embrace and held tightly for a few moments. When he was finally released, he was aware of how Porthos felt about him. When Aramis turned then to Athos, his patient did not break eye contact and then gave a slight acknowledging dip of his head. Aramis had no doubt that he had at last, made a warm connection with him too.

Later, in his quarters, Aramis thought about the last few days, as he wandered around his room, reacquainting himself with the things that mattered to him; his books, letters, photographs, his Bible. Then he thought about Porthos, and the impression the big man made on all the people he came across; his heart large enough to hold dearly anything entrusted to it. He thought then of bracing himself as the huge metal beast he was in fell out of the sky, to be brought to a skilful, though violent landing in an inhospitable piece of Helmand; the noise, the chaos, and then the silence as they realised how much more vulnerable they had suddenly become.

Finally, he thought about Captain Athos de la Fere, and his small acknowledgement of welcome, which was as immense as it was subtle, and immeasurable in its significance.

If this is what it took to breach this man's not inconsiderable defences, he should have done it sooner, he smiled to himself, feeling a welcomed warmth begin to spread within him.

His pager went off then and he reached for it, aware that he was needed, and glad of it.

To be continued ...


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

Aramis was changing the bandages on Athos's head a few days later as Porthos stood at the bottom of the bed, taking liberties by reading his chart.

"That's a hell of a name you've got there, Captain," he said, trying not to look at the still angry wound on his head. "Nearly as posh as his," he added, nodding at Aramis, who seemed quite pleased with the said wound as he palpated the skin around it.

Athos was gritting his teeth, but he raised an eyebrow at Porthos as Aramis straightened and placed his hand over his heart, giving them both a small bow;

"Aramis d'Herblay, as you know, my friends."

"You're one to talk Du Vallon," said Athos, looking over at Porthos, who had now replaced his chart.

Porthos chuckled.

"We all have a French connection it seems, Gentlemen," Aramis said.

Aramis was partially right. Athos's family were old French and from a long line of soldiers. There was nobility in his bloodline apparently, lost in the shadows of time, which he had never pursued. There was no shortage of money either, taking into account his mother's line.

The only time he took advantage of his name was when he took his commission in the Army, rather than work his way up, but that was after 9/11 and there was neither the time nor the inclination to delay.

Somewhere, he knew, he did have an arrogant trait that raised its head occasionally. He blamed it on his education – private schooling often bred such traits, he believed. Another reason why he had not cultivated too many friends at school, or kept the acquaintance of people he knew from that time.

Porthos' bloodline came through the historic French colonisation of Africa, while Aramis had a French father and a Spanish mother, apparently; this information given in the middle of the night when no-one was particularly tired, and Porthos was teaching them how to cheat at cards.

oOo

Sometimes, after an unkind night, Athos opened his eyes to daylight and thought he caught a glimpse of green swirling material, lurking in the corner of his peripheral vision. But when he turned, there was nothing there. It was nerve wracking and it did affect his ability to sleep. He did not want to sleep, because she roamed there as well. Fortunately, she stayed there; he had seen no more of her in his room.

When Athos had told Porthos about the mysterious woman, he too had accepted it without question. Athos still had trouble describing her;

"I cannot see her face clearly; it's always blurred, apart from her eyes. But her outline is very distinct," he had said. But it clearly worried him.

Athos was due to be flown back to the UK soon, but whether they sent him to a physical rehab centre, or into mental rehab, he did not yet know. He dreaded either.

oOo

As the days wore on, Aramis was aware that Athos was experiencing headaches that were taking a toll on his patient. He suspected that it was not all to do with his physical condition and that something more was troubling him, not least the mysterious woman he had seen. Athos was becoming more and more reluctant to take the pain medication offered.

After another abortive attempt to increase his pain relief, Aramis thought he would try a new approach on his stubborn patient.

"Tell me, my friend," he said one day, "Have you heard of James Braid?"

"No, but I am sure you are about to enlighten me," Athos replied, settling in for the story he knew was coming.

Aramis leaned back, getting himself comfortable.

"James Braid was a very skilled Scottish surgeon in the 1800's. He was a pioneer of hypnosis; perhaps the first hypnotherapist. He came to it after he attended a public performance by Charles Lafontaine, who demonstrated "magnetic phenomena" to assorted medical men. Subjects who were put into a magnetic trance appeared to enter into a different physical state. The medics were sceptical, but when Braid examined Lafontaine's subjects, he realised they were indeed in an altered state of consciousness. He went on to develop his own theories and techniques, refuting some of Lafontaine's claims, one being that the "mesmerist" would have total control over his subject.

Eventually, he succeeded in discovering the natural psycho-physiological, or "mind-body" mechanism that produced the trance state. He proved that hypnosis came about through the subject's _own_ abilities, not those of the hypnotist, who simply facilitated the condition. It was nothing to do with mind control, or the occult, as previously believed. He became well published on the subject, and became known as the Father of Modern Hypnotism.

He used hypnosis in his own medical practise, and even operated without anaesthetic in some cases, using hypnotic pain relief techniques. He was a fascinating man. I have made quite a study of him. He is a surgeon after my one heart, which brings me to my point," he finished, sitting back.

"What point is that?" Athos eyed him suspiciously.

"Would you like to try it?"

"Try what exactly?" said Athos warily.

"Hypnosis. I have studied it and used it a little, mainly for relaxation and pain relief – with good results, if I say so myself, my friend," Aramis ventured.

Athos sighed.

"Will you leave me alone if I submit?"

"Of course, mon ami. I would never force you to do anything you did not want to," he beamed.

"Very well. It is a psychotherapy after all. What do you have in mind?"

"I can show you some pain relief techniques, it may help. If you have an open mind?" he added, his eyes bright.

"You know I have, you've seen it." Athos met his eyes, his lips quirking in that way he had.

Aramis laughed,

"So I have, and it looked like a fine mind! So, shall we proceed?"

oOo

Over the next few days and after a few practise sessions, guided by the sound of Aramis's voice, Athos was able to sink into a pleasant relaxed state. Aramis had explained that it was possible to numb parts of the body and so ease pain, by imagining cold being applied to numb the area in question.

Once ready, and able to become relaxed sufficiently, Aramis led Athos into a deep trance and explained that Athos could therefore choose ice, or cold air; anything cold that he could imagine to numb the discomfort.

Athos chose ice cold water. When Aramis asked him what he would put the ice cold water in, Athos, deeply relaxed, his eyes closed, thought for a few moments and then he said, "a bucket."

Aramis smiled at that, and then sat back and began;

" _I want you to imagine that in front of you there is a large metal bucket of ice cold water ...imagine it...see the condensation running down the side because in that bucket there is ice and water, and it is very, very cold. Perhaps there is a layer of ice on the top of the water. Maybe you can see the ice ... glistening... Perhaps you can see the frost rising like steam ...or hear the sound of the ice clinking on the metal bucket ..._

 _Imagine you are walking up to that bucket. You are going to break through the ice on the top of the water... You are going to then put the fingertips of your left hand into the water. Perhaps you will get a small shock as you realise just how very cold it is ..._

 _Put those fingers tips in now ...feel the ice water against your fingernails ...Those finger tips are feeling numb, more and more numb ..._

 _Think now about your headache pain..._

 _Now ...take your pain and give it a colour ...give your headache pain a colour ..._

 _Now... give your headache colour a shape ... maybe a jagged shape ...it's your choice ..."_

After visualising the bucket, and feeling just how cold the ice water was, and allocating the colour red to the pain, Aramis then quietly asked what he was going to do with this bucket of ice cold water.

Still relaxed, with his eyes closed, Athos appeared to think for a few moments and then said he was going to break through the ice with his fist and then submerge his head in it. Aramis smiled again, but was not surprised. The unconscious mind often got straight to the point!

So he merely said _"Do so then",_ and Athos then saw himself doing that; imagining the intense cold icy feeling, as the red hot jagged pain of his headache was submerged in the cold, cold water; holding it there, as the icy cold water took the red hot pain away ...60% ...70% of the pain leaving ...the jagged edges smoothing ...the colour red fading ... fading to pink ...paler and paler ...feeling more and more comfortable ... and then ...imagining pulling his head out, his hair dripping wet.

Afterward, when the trance was ended, Athos was amazed at how clear headed he felt, and the dull throb of his headache was gone.

"When you get home," Aramis said, "I would like you to meet someone. If you still have an open mind, my friend. We have just scratched the surface and I'm not qualified, but I believe he can help you."

He handed Athos a business card.

"He is a friend. He is very experienced and I think he would like to meet you too."

Athos looked at the simple card,

 _John Treville_

 _Master Clinical Hypnotherapist_

The address was Harley Street, London.

oOo

 **There are Three Parts to this Story:**

 **This is the End of Part One**

 **A/N**

The village of Musa Quala was retaken briefly by the Taliban in 2007

The reluctant student in the Lecture Theatre in Chapter Two was me, though in a different University somewhere else in the UK. I was reluctant for the same reasons. My favourite safe place turned out to be a theme park though, not a beach. That experience belonged to a client of mine several years later, who found himself sitting in a circle on a beach during the WWII with his war buddies. He hadn't seen them since the War, so he was very emotional but very happy when he came back to full awareness. Hypnosis is such a gift sometimes.

Polperro is a beautiful village in Cornwall.

The Chinook helicopter incident did happen.

The hypnotic inductions, techniques and visualisations (including the ice bucket) in this fic are real, but should always be carried out by a professional.

I will put notes at the end of each Part.

Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**PART TWO**

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **2006**

 **Home – The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea**

Athos was flown home and moved into physical rehab in the end. At least he had a room of his own to retreat to, and a door he could firmly close. Strangely adrift in his new environment, he went through the motions, following the orders of the new regime; the mantle of loneliness falling softly around him, unbidden.

After six weeks of daily physiotherapy, a condition of his discharge, by the time they let him go he had been able to walk on the treadmill holding onto the side rails, for forty five minutes. Apparently, it was enough. He had studiously avoided any counselling sessions; he had no desire to relive his experiences and traumatise himself further.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he arrived back at his apartment in Chelsea, to be met by one of the managers of the Knightsbridge agency that had been looking after it, who was there to hand back his keys. Nice personal service, he thought. Throwing his stick on the sofa, he walked slowly around the rooms, reacquainting himself with the layout and the views. Catching sight of himself in the bathroom cabinet mirror though, he hardly recognised himself.

"For Queen and Country," he said to his reflection, quietly surveying his hollow eyes, the dark smudges beneath them, and the pale complexion.

He had been gone for nearly five years, with only a few visits in between, but opening one of the cupboards in the kitchen, there was still a bottle of fifteen year old malt whisky sitting there, waiting to be opened.

Which he did.

It was a luxurious three bedroom apartment, spread over two floors, within a beautiful period converted building. There were French oak floors throughout, and an open plan kitchen. Not that he had used it much, preferring to use the local restaurants, or order food in. Although large, the apartment itself was welcoming. It oozed understated style, with some dark silk walls and discreet lighting which gave it a warm ambiance on an evening.

The agency had kept it well. It was clean and polished and smelled of sandalwood. The beds were not made up, but he had bought new bedding before he had left and it was all still packaged up in the wardrobes, ready to be used. Nothing had changed. Funny how the world keeps turning when your own personal world stops, he thought absently.

Outside, the streets had changed a little. There were more restaurants and bars. The prestigious Harrods store was still there around the corner, obviously. But, as he shut the door and pushed the bolt across, he was glad of the quiet that surrounded him. Alone at last, solely responsible for himself, he sat on the sofa with his whisky and wondered what the hell he was going to do now, as all purpose eluded him.

There was an elegant Mason & Hamlin black baby grand piano which took pride of place in front of the large bay window; the high gloss reflected the light from wide panes of glass. He had always played Chopin when he was stressed, or when he just wanted to just lose himself. He used to play Chopin when he was happy too. He moved slowly over and sat on the padded piano stool once more, opened the lid and idly ran stiff fingers over the keys, but Chopin eluded him too.

oOo

Over the next few weeks, things did not improve. Most days he would sit and stare out the window, looking at the lively scene below, but not feeling a part of it, nor wanting to. He often forgot to eat, forgot to trim his beard and he would stand in the shower, washing off the imaginary blood and gore that was Ben Elmer, until the water ran cold and he would gradually come back to himself.

For those first few months after Athos came home, he was totally lost. He did not have the distractions of command nor the uniform to bolster him; and he briefly forgot who he was. He bore the guilt of his brother's death and the vision of Ben Elmer disintegrating before his eyes; because the boy had taken his eye off the ball thinking Athos had been shot, because he just didn't know where his life was taking him. Because.

The whisky was long gone, but replaced several times over. He lost count of the times he came to on the sofa, never having gone to bed; more often than not, an empty bottle on the floor beside him.

One day, when he was at his lowest, there was a knock at the door. At first, he tried to ignore it. But whoever was out there was persistent. He flung the door open, ready to despatch the caller without mercy.

The big man was lounging against the door frame, eating an apple.

"'ello Captain," his voice rumbled, a smile spreading across his face.

Athos sagged, a slow familiar warmth beginning to flood through him.

"2nd Lieutenant," he murmured, his slow smile reaching his eyes.

The big man started to laugh.

"Just Porthos now," he chuckled.

Porthos gave the best hugs.

And sometimes, Athos accepted them.

oOo

"So you are a free man too now," Athos said, making black coffee in the kitchen after realising he had no milk. _When had he last gone shopping?_

"Yeah, my inheritance came through. I'm working on the estates, sort of counselling I guess, puttin' something back. Kids seem to like me," he said, smiling.

"I am sure they do." Athos had no doubt about that.

"You don't look too good, Cap." Porthos came round to stand beside him, taking the cup and noticing the trembling hand. He then moved back toward the lounge.

"Well, it has been a challenge," Athos admitted, following him. "And it's just Athos now; the Captain is retired," he added quietly.

They settled themselves on one of the sofas. Porthos looked at him, probably seeing more than Athos wanted him to.

Porthos changed the subject,

"Yeah, I loved the Army, but after what 'appened ... " Porthos, said, "well, that should 'ave been me there, watching your back, not Ben."

When Athos didn't answer, but just seemed to shrink slightly into the sofa, Porthos said,

"And then nearly losing Aramis like that..."

Athos appeared to give himself a shake and looked up,

"Aramis..." he said, "How is he?"

Suddenly there was a familiar voice in the doorway.

"I am well, mon ami!"

Aramis was standing in the doorway, smiling his brightest smile.

And he came bearing gifts.

oOo

"This is a very large apartment," Aramis said, after looking around, and settling himself on a high stool at the kitchen island, while Porthos searched cupboards for pans and plates.

"There is another floor," Athos replied, unpacking the wine and steaks that Aramis had brought.

"There is?" Aramis smiled.

"And a roof garden," Athos added, uncorking the wine.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look and grinned at each other.

oOo

Porthos whistled as he walked around the apartment some more, both wine and steak now gone.

"So this is what a private education and a trust fund gets you," he chuckled, looking out of the window.

Athos smiled.

"Well, it's family money, I had nothing to do with it. There is a chateau in Picardy too, but I haven't been there since I joined the Army. I rent half of it out to families, and the rest is taken care of by a local couple. They take care of any repairs and tend the garden."

"So, you've got a crash mansion too?" laughed Porthos.

"You could call it that I suppose," Athos said, realising how much he had missed Porthos.

Later, as Athos realised he was actually enjoying his evening, he asked Aramis how things were.

"It's better out there now, they have expanded the surgical team so I don't feel so bad about coming home," Aramis said.

"You don't live in London," Athos said.

"I live anywhere I like, mon ami," Aramis replied expansively, looking around the apartment.

"This is very big for one person," he added, his eyes coming back to Athos.

"You planned this," Athos said, looking at them, realisation dawning.

But he was not unhappy.

oOo

To be continued ...


	8. Chapter 8

Many thanks for reading and reviewing.

The road to recovery continues, but these things do not always go according to plan; three steps forward, two steps back.

 **CHAPTER EIGHT**

Somehow, they soon all seemed to have a key to his apartment. Athos wasn't quite sure how that had happened; although Aramis and Porthos had accommodation of their own, it was to Athos's apartment they all seemed to gravitate.

When his brothers saw how firm his demons held him, they joined forces and supported him; sat with him; talked to him; fed him, and basically just loved him.

So they were there when he went into occasional meltdown.

The first time was when Porthos opened a can of coke in the kitchen and it sprayed in Athos's face. The shock and the _feel_ of it on his skin creating a flashback that left Athos in a heap on the floor, his hands covering his face. Porthos had pulled him up and sat him on a kitchen stool, going around behind him and putting his arms around him to keep him from sliding off. Aramis brought a towel and gently dried his face.

Later, the three of them sat on the sofa listening to the sublime arias of Puccini, the lights low, their voices soft, until enough time passed for him to right himself. As the night wore on, and more wine was drunk, Athos finally began to unburden himself to Porthos andAramis, and they discovered at least one of the burdens of guilt he carried with him.

"Thomas was killed by a woman. He went to her assistance. She had a baby in her arms. Only, once he'd got close, the "baby" was an AK-47, and she shot him and left him there to die. The medics didn't get there in time, and he died in the field ambulance. Apparently, the surgeon did a wonderful job and wouldn't give up, but they had to physically pull him off in the end. That's a comfort in a strange way; that someone would try that hard for him..." his voice trailed off.

"I know this story," said Porthos cautiously, breaking the ensuing silence.

"What do you mean?" Athos asked, looking up at him, uncomprehending.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look.

Aramis stood and walked quietly over to the piano.

Porthos leaned forward and put a calming hand on Athos's arm.

"The surgeon was Aramis. He told me in the hospital. That's why he put such a lot of time into getting you well."

Porthos looked over at Aramis before he continued...

"He felt he had let Thomas down, and he didn't want another de la Fere to die on his watch."

Athos looked at Aramis.

Aramis was looking away, but then he turned his head to look at him, and Athos saw that it was true.

Athos just stared at him, his eyes too big, and his heart too full.

oOo

Gradually, Athos was having more good days than bad. He was now walking better and no longer reliant on his stick, which had happily been confined to the back of the guest room wardrobe.

London had a lot of distractions, and one evening, one such attraction was a comedy club in Covent Garden. With a surprising minimum amount of effort, Porthos had persuaded Athos that they should give it a try, and the two of them left Aramis, who was busy but promised to join then later, and set off. The comedian had the dry, sardonic humour that Athos liked; as the night wore on, Porthos thought how good it felt to hear him laugh; it had been a long time and he had begun to wonder if he had forgotten how to.

They were laughing afterwards as they walked down the streets on their way to a bar to meet up with Aramis.

Rounding a corner, Porthos was suddenly aware that Athos was no longer beside him, and that he had been talking to himself. He turned around; Athos was standing stock still, looking down at the pavement.

"What?" Porthos said, still laughing.

The laughter died on his lips as Athos raised his head to look at him, and Porthos saw the look in his eyes.

"Athos?" he whispered, taking a step toward him.

Athos put both hands to his mouth as if he couldn't breathe, and slowly went into a crouch.

Porthos looked around, seeing nothing that could have caused this reaction. Athos was not looking at anything, just pressing his hands over his mouth and nose.

 _He's not breathin'_

"Athos," he said, worried now. "What's wrong?" He reached out and took hold of his shoulders and hauled him up.

"That smell ..." Athos groaned, standing limp now in Porthos's firm grip.

Porthos looked around, and in that instant, he realised.

They were standing next to an Asian restaurant and the air was heavy with the sweet pungent aroma of Asian food.

Athos had been transported in a moment back to Musa Qala, once more watching a woman making a meal for a family that would never eat it; a family who would never see her alive again. Athos had spoken of her in the hospital. But the aroma of food similar to that which she had been cooking on that fateful day had made this memory much more vivid than any words could. An aroma now locked into his unconscious mind, free to do its worst.

Porthos wrapped his arms around his friend, and breathed with him, until he quietened.

When he let go, he took his friend's face in his hands and made him make eye contact.

"It's just a panic attack," his voice fierce, yet full of love.

When Athos just stared at him, Porthos simply said,

"That was then, this is _now,"_ and pulled him along, as if nothing had happened. Gradually, they fell into step, and made it to the pub.

The tension finally eased; they saw Aramis in the corner, and spent the rest of the evening regaling him with a colourful account of the jokes they had heard.

But Porthos's heart ached.

 _When would Athos get some peace._

oOo

Moments like that those though helped Athos to realise he was not alone. He loved both these men. He may have lost one brother, but he had found two more really remarkable ones. Porthos, who had never had a family of his own, felt the same way. Aramis? well, he loved everyone; although he devoted his time to watching and caring for his two brothers.

Athos did not know what he had done to deserve such affection. He had never been shown such care and understanding. His life had always been about duty and order. When he got too morose, and started to fold in on himself, they bundled him onto the Underground and took a short tube ride to their favourite pub, "The Wren," which stood in the shadow of St. Paul's Cathedral. They let him sit in a corner and stew in his own juice before bringing him home and pouring him into bed.

His brothers knew that, although he was not tactile, and found their outward affection somewhat difficult, standing awkwardly in one of Porthos's bear hugs, that he cared deeply about people. He was happy to be aloof, he could slip a mask on as easily as his coat, but underneath that mask, when it slipped, his heart could swell like any other with love, and hope and happiness.

With the support of his friends, Athos retrieved his PhD paperwork and committed himself to finishing his doctorate. It would not be easy, but it would be distracting. And so he set to work.

oOo

It was not all plain sailing as time wore on – there were good days and bad. Many days when he did not drink and some days when he needed to drink himself into oblivion. Gradually, his demons were retreating in the face of unremitting brotherhood.

But one was persistent; persuing him, and unnerving him.

One evening, Porthos let himself into the apartment, his arms full of groceries. Kicking off his shoes, he adjusted the bags and pushed his hip against the kitchen door. The door swung open to a dark kitchen, which was unusual. Porthos put the bags on the floor and felt for the light switch, flooding the kitchen with light. Athos was sitting on the floor, his back to the fridge, knees drawn up to his chest. His hair was still damp from the shower. He had obviously been preparing vegetables, as the evidence was now strewn across the floor. But now, he was hunched over, his forehead on his drawn up knees, apparently shutting out the world.

Porthos looked quickly around, before moving across the floor and crouching down in front of his friend.

"You seen 'er again? The woman in the cloak?" he asked quietly, understanding instantly.

Athos nodded.

"I just looked up, and she was standing over there," he waved his arm toward the window.

"I'm going mad, Porthos," Athos said, raising his head, his eyes haunted.

"Come on," Porthos answered, pulling him up.

"You have a lie down – Aramis will be here soon."

Later, when Aramis quietly opened the bedroom door, he found Athos sitting back on the bed, leaning against the headboard, staring at the wall, the cup of tea Porthos had brought him cold in his hands. Aramis sat down next to him, legs stretched out, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, before Aramis prised the cup from his friend's hand, and set it down on the bedside table.

"She's haunting me," Athos muttered, bereft.

"I keep thinking she is watching me, keep thinking I catch sight of her out of the corner of my eye. And now, she's _here_."

"I think," said Aramis with a sigh, "that your unconscious mind is trying to tell you something,"

"Do you still have Treville's card?" he added.

"In my desk." Athos replied.

Aramis got off the bed, and headed purposefully back into the lounge.

To be continued ...


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

 **Summer 2007**

 **Introducing John Treville**

Harley Street W1, where John Treville had his suite of treatment rooms, was the centre of private medical care in London. His practice was in a beautiful Grade II listed Georgian period property, built in 1830. The glossed black front entrance door opened onto an original tiled floor. The exterior of the building was white, with black railings along the length of the frontage. Beautiful manicured mulberry bushes stood on each side of the door.

The rooms were furnished tastefully; the ground floor main reception having leather chesterfield sofas and armchairs. The therapy rooms were bright, with a cream and navy colour scheme. Each room had a crystal chandelier and several had marble fireplaces. A beautiful wooden staircase swept up to the upper floors. Beyond, at the top of the property, was a three bedroom apartment suite, the length and width of the building itself, where Treville resided.

Harley Street itself was well served by airports and rail links, which meant many overseas visitors kept business brisk. The many brass plates on the front of the buildings attested to the variety of services offered; private surgeons, therapists, dental surgeons, and cosmetic surgeons amongst investment and estate companies and private dwellings.

John Treville was well established over many years, an imposing yet well respected head of his empire. He was the Principal of the National Society for Clinical Hypnosis and as well as having a very successful practice, he lectured on the post graduate programme at the University of London on psychotherapies in general and hypnotherapy in particular. He also supervised both Certificate and Diploma practitioner courses in several establishments throughout the south of England.

Athos's first meeting with John Treville, during his long recuperation – made he believed to take his mind off his lack of control of his situation, was quite a revelation. He liked the man, and trusted him almost immediately. He had a calm manner, and clear blue eyes. Still in thrall to some of his demons, particularly the occasional headache and the more occasional intense nightmare, he found Treville to be accepting and empathic.

"So, tell me, in your own words, why are you here?" he had said, sitting across the room, a notepad on his knee.

An hour and a half later, Athos had told him everything that had happened to him over the last two years, both physically and mentally. It was the most he had spoken in weeks, but the blue intense eyes and gentle probing questions were enough to loosen his tongue. Perhaps he was ready to accept help, after all.

He had been non-judgemental when Athos talked about the mysterious woman who had been drifting through his life for nearly eighteen months.

"I feel as if she is watching me."

"How long have you felt this?"

"Since that day in the village when I saw her behind Ben."

Treville talked to him about trauma.

"But of course you know this, you are highly qualified Athos."

"However qualified I am, it all goes out of the window when something like this happens. I have probably forgotten more than I know now. My long term memory was somewhat compromised. I am relearning as I go along," he replied quietly. "Was it my imagination, or a memory do you think?"

"Perhaps a combination of both," Treville answered,

"It is possible," he continued, "that when you saw Ben Elmer killed, your mind dissociated and your unconscious mind became dominant. Your mysterious woman could be a result of that. She may be a memory, your imagination, someone you saw in a film. However, she may be someone you have a real bond with."

"How many times have you seen her?" Treville asked, to clarify.

"Three times now. Twice in Afghanistan and once in my kitchen. But I feel as if she is there, watching. I sometimes think I see her out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn, there is nothing there."

Treville read quickly through his notes and then sat back;

"Well, the first thing is to help you to relax. That seems to have been lacking lately. Hypnosis will help with that. You've done this a few times before with Aramis, I believe, so you know what to expect. Let's get started. Are you ready to go into the trance state?"

And so, Athos was guided once more into a deep trance, during which Treville helped him visualise a place where he could imagine himself safe and comfortable. This particular safe place was one of his favourite beaches in St Lucia.

Once deeply relaxed, Treville asked him to use all his senses and spent time helping him develop the visualisation, determining what he could see, feel, touch and smell, to bring the experience vividly to life.

Drawing the trance to a close, he gave him post hypnotic suggestions for restful sleep, explaining that as soon as his head hit the pillow, he would fall into a deep, restful sleep, before bringing him back to full waking awareness. The whole process had taken a little over an hour.

Treville explained later that as the unconscious mind cannot argue, it believed he _had_ actually walked on that white sand, feeling it between his toes; that he had run his hand over the bark of a palm tree, and breathed in the salty smell of the ocean and the tropical flowers on the edge of the sand. The experience was now filed away in his unconscious, and could be brought back to enjoy another time.

It was liberating. Athos felt free of some of the constraints of the ordered life he had been living in the Army, and the chaotic life he had been living since. Most liberating was the fact he now had new thoughts in his head, no longer caught in a cycle of negativity. His conscious mind had been too overwhelmed to do that, but in trance, that part of his mind had been bypassed and his unconscious had come to the fore.

Following that first session, he had emerged from the building and stood on the steps; as he breathed in the summer air, he realised he had renewed hope that he may regain control over his life.

After three sessions, he could go to his safe place quickly, and enjoyed the ability to change it, make the ocean bluer, wilder; the sand softer, add more palm trees; drift in a hammock slung between two trees. The possibilities were endless. All he needed was imagination, and that was slowly being awoken as Treville guided him through each session.

On the fourth session though, something happened.

He did not find himself in his safe place, but Treville reminded him that he was there with him, and asked him to just drift and let it happen. After a few moments of drifting, Treville spoke quietly,

"Remaining deeply relaxed; can you tell me where are you now?"

Athos sat quietly in the chair, eyes closed, breathing evenly, thinking, before saying,

"Not sure, some sort of courtyard, I think."

"Look around Athos, tell me what you see and what you hear ..."

There was a long pause, as Athos determined what images his mind was showing him.

"Two men ... raised voices ...they seem to be arguing..."

"Describe them to me, what are they wearing?"

"Strange clothes, old fashioned. Loose shirts and trousers; both are wearing boots, I think."

"How old are they?"

"One is young, maybe in his twenties. The other older... I think they are perhaps father and son."

"What are they saying?"

"I cannot make it out..."

"Listen carefully," Treville instructed.

"French! It's old French, but I can understand some of it," Athos murmured.

Treville paused, giving Athos time to assimilate what he was seeing.

"It's over, the younger one is storming off. The older one is shouting after him ..."

"What is he shouting?"

Athos didn't answer at first, he was deeply relaxed and it was difficult to form words. But then he lifted his head, although his eyes remained shut;

"A name, he is calling out a name ..."

"What name is he calling?" Treville prompted.

Another pause, and then Athos said,

"Olivier ...

The young man's name is Olivier."

oOo

To be continued ...


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

John Treville was now looking at him intently, and Athos was finding it a little difficult, as he was feeling particularly vulnerable. But he needed to find answers and he was ready to learn.

"What just happened?" Athos asked Treville once the session was over and they were sitting quietly.

"Any number of things," said Treville.

"It seemed so real," whispered Athos. "Could he be an ancestor?"

"Hard to say, as you only heard one name, but we can do this another time, see if you can learn any more. It may happen, it may not."

"You have to have the patience of a saint to do this work, dammit – I'm curious now!" Athos said.

"Soon, Athos. We can do another session, see if we can find this "Olivier" of yours and find out what happened to him. Sometimes, these memories or past lives have a direct bearing on your present life."

"Past lives?" asked Athos.

"Your unconscious mind should be respected, Athos. Someone is trying to get your attention."

Athos sat quietly, thinking.

 _First this mysterious woman, now this,_ he thought. And he was still none the wiser!

oOo

Far from being concerned by his experience of the young man and his father, he was intrigued. He devoured everything he could about hypnosis. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly; do it right. He read up on the history of hypnosis, case studies, he poured over every book he could find. He grilled Treville with countless questions.

In the end, he enrolled on Treville's practitioner training course. Hypnotherapy did complement psychotherapy after all, and now he had some experience of it. He had developed a great respect for John Treville, and admired his calm control. This was a whole new world; a test of his beliefs, and he needed those new horizons.

There were thirty other post grad. students on the course, many from a medical background. Treville was proactive in getting hypnosis recognised within the medical profession, and these tailored courses were often over subscribed. That first day, he had settled himself at the back, quietly observing as people filed in. John Treville was doing the same at the front of the class. They had given each other a slight nod of acknowledgement, and the room began to settle.

Just before the lecture started, a young woman bustled in and sat down beside him.

"Thought I was going to be late!" she whispered to him, her smile almost lighting up the room.

"Just in time," he murmured, offering to hold her books as she got herself comfortable.

"Constance," she said, happily.

"Athos," he replied, handing the books back.

"I've so been looking forward to this course."

"Me too," he smiled.

And he realised then, that it was true.

"The curriculum looks very interesting!" she said, thumbing through the prospectus;

 _Hypnodesensitisation_

 _Limb Catalepsy_

 _Analytical Hypnotherapy_

 _Hypnoesitherapy_

 _Pain control_

 _Favourite Place of Relaxation_

I like that last one," she laughed.

He found he could not repress a smile at her enthusiasm.

Treville stood then, and the room went quiet. He welcomed them all, and asked if they were ready to enjoy the course; Athos recognised the positive language structure he was using; they were hardly going to say "no", he smiled to himself. As so, Treville had their attention;

"You have all experienced a trance-like state many times; daydreaming, becoming so absorbed in a book that you are not aware of what is going on around you. And I am sure some of you will have driven your car to a destination, but on arrival, not remember the actual journey! To you, that may be auto-pilot. To me, and in fact, it is an altered state of consciousness.

Hypnosis is an altered state of consciousness where the conscious, everyday mind is allowed to drift off while the unconscious comes to the fore. The left side of your brain is the logical, conscious brain that analyses, controls language, and is the more academic side of the brain. Give it something to do and off it goes. The right side is the more artistic, creative, emotional part; the unconscious mind. This is where everything you have ever experienced is stored. Most of it, you will have forgotten, but tie up the conscious and access the unconscious, and it is there to be retrieved. The unconscious mind is very powerful, and should be respected.

It is a liberating experience to be hypnotised. To allow the body to grow heavy and sink into the chair, so that, in the end, awareness of your body diminishes and it feels as if you are floating out of your body; but still aware. Aware of every sound. More so, in fact. Even the ticking of the clock seems louder. And then, drifting deeper, until you are not aware of your body at all; and your eyes, behind closed lids, searching the horizons that stretch out and welcome the images that begin to appear. To be able to touch, with your imagination, perhaps the bark of a tree or a cool wall, or smell perhaps, the fragrance of flowers. To be able to swim to great depths without the need to breathe; to let those memories and experiences free to allow the development of new ideas and resolutions, which may be sometimes gentle, sometimes startling.

The unconscious does not have the ability to negate; it cannot contradict - unlike the conscious mind, which will argue with you all day long! So, in the deeply relaxed state that is trance, suggestions given to you are more likely to be acted upon. Everything you have ever experienced is stored away in your unconscious mind. It is truly remarkable, and it is powerful.

And while being deeply relaxed like that, in the trance state, there is the opportunity to work on problems and find solutions, not just for yourself, but for others."

oOo

There were many fascinating techniques that they learned during this time. One lecture in particular held Athos's attention.

 **Past Life Regression – Lecture by John Treville**

"It is in Eastern cultures rather than those in the West, where you will find perhaps the strongest belief in past lives. But past life regression therapy is becoming more popular in the West, as people seek answers to their problems. Some people believe that past lives can affect present lives and that seeking closure can help.

It can happen spontaneously in the trance state without warning, and you may find your client talking about things they have no knowledge of, so it is important to learn the techniques and to be able to manage the outcome.

You, yourselves, do not have to believe in concept of past lives for this to benefit your clients. I am still, after all these years, confounded by some of the things that I have seen and heard. One theory is that the process of past life regression is a _psychological drama of the mind_ between the unconscious and the conscious mind, where positive resolutions can be brought about. It is a healing technique, at its core. Each past life is a journey that can form close bonds between the past and the present."

Treville's lecture was fascinating. He went on to talk about souls travelling through their journeys, working out lessons together, with each life playing a little differently, giving each soul an opportunity to perform a different role. Whenever something is left incomplete or unresolved at the end of a lifetime, it will be addressed in another. This is called _karma._ If two souls have had a difficult relationship, they will have a chance to resolve this karma. Sometimes one person will resolve his part of the karma while the other person does not; the second person will have to do it over again the next time.

"There are several purposes of doing a past life regression," he said.

"Revisiting past memories and experiences can release negative emotions, allowing change to happen, where previously, the client may be stuck. Regardless of what you believe, through careful guided visualisation of past memories, including past lives, such negative emotions can be released, along with pain, anxiety and guilt.

In past life therapy you look for answers to mental or physical afflictions by regressing into a past life. The clue could be an unresolved phobia, a fear, or a bad dream. Some therapists use past life regression regularly. Some chose to go down a more, shall we say, conventional route. All that matters is that you keep an open mind, and respect your client's belief in what they are experiencing."

oOo

Although Athos was not sure about _his_ actual belief in past life regression, he did find the lecture fascinating, and if it could happen spontaneously in trance, it was necessary to train in the various methods and techniques in order to deal with it.

He had certainly experienced some parts of his own "psychological drama" in which _Olivier_ and the _Woman in Green_ seemed to be key players.

Aramis and Treville had both said his unconscious mind was trying to tell him something. Perhaps this was the way to figure out what was going on. Psychological theories were all very well, but here was a way to actually access that part of his mind.

He had tried to consign both Olivier and the Woman in Green to the back of his mind.

But he knew, deep down, that he was fooling himself.

This drama was far from over.

oOo

To be continued ...


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Constance became a firm friend, not just to Athos but also to Aramis and Porthos as well. She was very fond of Athos and she knew a sad heart when she saw one. Once, after they both had escaped lectures, on a particularly drunken night in the East End, they sat at the back of a dimly lit bar. He had been very quiet, more so than usual, something sparked by a training technique that afternoon, which required them to work on a past memory that was still affecting them; part of the practical training that required them to hypnotise their fellow students and deal with their own issues.

Constance's memory involved a particularly embarrassing moment when she was caught _in flagrante delicto_ , the thought of it making her squirm to this day. She had jumped at the chance of neutralised _that_ particular memory! He though, had struggled finding his own memory to work on, some memories just too strong and painful, that he wanted to keep a lid on for now. He ended up giving up and quietly leaving the room for some fresh air. Hence her suggestion they go for some food, but it had inevitably involved wine. In the quiet of the bar, and with the lull of the wine, he told her about Thomas, but not about himself.

He did not know why it hurt so much that Thomas had been killed by a woman. It was irrational of him. It did not really matter, especially in war, but for some reason it continued to cause him pain. Perhaps it was the manner of his death, that he had been trying to help and she had used that against him in the most brutal, callous way. The fact that Thomas had followed him into the Army, and they had not had the chance to reconnect and speak before he had died also added to his burden.

Constance had listened quietly to him, before she leant forward and put her hand over his.

"There is more room in a broken heart, Athos," she said, before refilling their glasses.

He was extremely grateful for that comment. It was one he filed away to bring out at a time in the future when he may need some reassurance.

oOo

It was through Constance that Athos met Ninon de Larroque, her lifelong friend.

Ninon was a beautiful woman; a former model, once married to a famous F1 driver. She had an IQ of 120 and did not suffer fools gladly. She could be very intimidating, and she knew it.

She was also a very wealthy author who wrote under a pseudonym, but only Constance knew that. Ninon was used to being judged by her looks, and in this particular venture, she was adamant that she would remain anonymous.

Ninon was very attracted to Athos but she now kept her cards very close to her chest. He had been somewhat embarrassed by her initial bold approach when they were first introduced, and she had backed off, believing Athos had his own reasons for not picking up her cues. It only served to make her more intrigued by him, however.

Constance was slightly amused by them both.

Ninon had sighed one evening in particular when she and Constance were discussing men.

"He does have beautiful features."

"Ninon de Larroque," Constance had cried, "Leave my Athos alone!" she added, laughing, knowing exactly who Ninon was talking about.

"It's alright," Ninon had smiled back at her, "I'm not looking for love, and I am certainly not the marrying kind. Tried it, got the t-shirt."

"I just don't want to see him hurt." Constance said quietly.

"He could break hearts with the sound of his voice alone," Ninon sighed again.

Both Athos and Ninon were an enigma, but neither seemed able to take that step into a relationship. Constance was very protective of them both but if she was to encourage their friendship, she would have to do so slowly.

Before Athos and Constance knew it, they were qualified and sadly, their days of study were over. He already had his degree and doctorate, and now he was a master clinical hypnotherapist **.** It seemed he was a natural, with his melodious voice, enigmatic presence, and his OCD approach to learning.

Constance had plans to move to Geneva to open a practise; she had worked as a nurse there and had fallen in love with the people and beautiful scenery. Ninon had a holiday home there, so it fitted perfectly with her plans. Treville, meanwhile, asked Athos to work with him out of his practise in Harley Street. He had his reasons. If he was to retire at some future date, he needed someone to take over when the time came, and he recognised something special in Athos. He was also intrigued by him.

Now, though Athos needed experience and the relationship suited them both. Treville needed a second in command and he was lining Athos up for that role.

The commute from his apartment in Chelsea to the practice in Westminster was only three miles, and he was now well able to comfortably walk that distance, or take a cab ride if necessary.

With John Treville as a mentor and Harley Street as a base, and because he was an excellent all round therapist, Athos had a swift rise to recognition, and was soon in demand. This was somewhat due to one of his clients being a minor member of the Royal Family. She was seen leaving the practice by the tabloid press who put two and two together and thereafter, he seemed to be in demand.

Most of Athos's clients quietly adored him. Some were somewhat intimidated by him. He was the consummate professional however, and had never formed any relationships with his students, or clients; if anything, remaining aloof. Not all their husbands or partners believed that however, and he had been stalked on occasions, much to his quiet amusement.

Psychotherapy and hypnotherapy suited him well, as he was not a tactile man. He could therefore sit across the room from his client and just use his voice and when they surfaced, the first thing they saw was his beautiful green eyes, studying them. So yes, he was adored by many, both female and occasionally male, although they soon found out he was both straight and professional in his conduct. So they adored him from afar, he was untouchable, and he was content.

Athos never lingered over goodbyes to his clients, or acknowledged them in the street, in case their families and friends did not know they were having hypnotherapy treatment.

This suited Athos.

He was an island.

Perhaps that was why he was so interesting to many people.

oOo

 **2009**

Those early days were interesting, to say the least. One day Athos had queried why they never did home visits.

Treville promptly booked one in with a particular client, smiling to himself.

And so, Athos found himself a few days later sitting on his very rich client's sofa, there to deal with a dental phobia prior to the insertion of very expensive veneers. He was halfway through the hypnotic induction, talking his client down. He noted a deep trance, judging by her slow breathing and relaxed facial expression, when he heard a noise in the kitchen. Rather than leave his client sitting in the chair and stepping softly out to investigate, he kept going. Suddenly, a Persian cat jumped on the sofa and sat looking at him.

Great, he thought, but the cat was better on the sofa with him than suddenly jumping on the client and sending them barrelling up into the ceiling in shock. Fine, until he heard the same noise in the kitchen, and another cat, this time a black and white one, slunk into the room, looking at him with distain. The look was reciprocated. It stalked over toward his client, so Athos stretched out his leg and gently pushed it away. It simply glared at him and started to wash its paws.

Now he had one arm held against the one on the sofa, and his leg outstretched to fend off the other one. And that was when the kitchen cat flap opened again, for that was obviously the noise he had heard in the kitchen. And yes, here came a ginger tabby. That's when he used his clients file to waft away the latest visitor.

Needless to say, the session was shorter than normal, but he did give the suggestion that it would appear to be much longer than usual, so the client would not feel short-changed. The cats also appeared to have enjoyed it, as they were all fast asleep by the time he woke the client and she had no recollection of what had happened nor seen her therapist running out of limbs trying to herd her cats, so Athos's dignity was saved. As he was taking his leave, the client's chinchilla decided to go for a spin on its very noisy wheel. He was grateful it had the consideration to wait until he had finished.

When he heard the office door slam two hours later, Treville called out,

"What have you learned?"

"That I am allergic to cats, and that we don't do home visits because we cannot control the environment!" came the angry reply.

That was a sobering lesson. Fortunately, the client was happy and the treatment was successful, judging by the latest photo in the tabloid press of her flashing her new very expensive veneers.

One day, he may write a book.

oOo

 **2012**

 **Introducing d'Artagnan**

It was Constance who had introduced d'Artagnan into their group, after meeting him herself at an Army reunion dinner she had attended with Porthos. There had been an instant attraction between the young couple, just as Porthos had hoped when he invited her.

D'Artagnan's introduction to the Afghan war was in 2010. He was 23 years old; part of a seventy strong French task force in coalition with the USA, UK, Estonia, Denmark and Canada, participating in the NATO led Operation Mashtrak in Helmand Province.

By that time, Athos had been home five years, healing and forging his new career with Treville. Porthos had left the Army and was setting up youth schemes in his old neighbourhoods. Aramis was doing sporadic trauma work for NATO wherever he was needed, lecturing medical students, and otherwise enjoying his downtime; he made frequent visits to Chelsea to spend time with his brothers.

d'Artagnan had a French father, and an Italian mother. His first memory was sitting beneath a tree in an almond grove in Sicily with his maternal grandmother ; his beloved _Nonnina._ Nonna made the best amaretto biscuits and the smell and taste of almonds were now a part of him.

He was now in a UK Government MoD Special Task Force, mopping up some of the consequences of the Afghan war, but it had not been easy for him. His father had died just after his first mission, and by the time he had returned, his jaw had been broken in two places, the result of a road side bomb that had overturned the vehicle he was in. He was taking more codeine than was advisable, or needed; he had found it difficult to stop. He was also smoking 100 cigarettes a day. Gauloises, no less. And that was how Athos had met him, after Constance had bullied him into making an appointment to address his various issues.

As the unspoken rule was usually no hypnosis on friends or family, this was acceptable as Athos was still a stranger at that point.

 **D'Artagnans's First Appointment**

Athos was taking a history of d'Artagnan's addictions:

"Smoking?" asked Athos.

"Just a habit, I think," d'Artagnan answered thoughtfully. "I don't really like it."

"Pain killers?"

"Too many - broken jaw, last year"

"Anything else?"

"Marzipan?" d'Artagnan said, squinting at him.

To his credit, Athos did not react.

"Can you help?" d'Artagnan ventured.

Athos finished typing and closed his laptop.

"One addiction at a time," he said, smoothly;

"Smoking first, as that is the one that will kill you eventually, either through lung disease, or coughing at an inappropriate moment," he added, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, that has happened," d'Artagnan muttered, thinking of a particularly tense moment in a cellar in Instanbul, when he had to stuff his glove in his mouth to avoid giving his position away.

"Monday, nine pm. Don't be late." Athos said, thinking the boy was a liability, so there was no time to waste. Marzipan indeed.

D'Artagnan was dismissed.

oOo

To be continued ...


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

 **The Present**

 **The La Fere Estate, Picardy, France**

That was history now; d'Artagnan was a firm addition to their brotherhood. In the snatched months that Athos had worked with d'Artagnan he had built a strong bond with him.

Septembers were theirs, and so they all gathered at what Porthos called Athos's "Crash Mansion" in Picardy, close enough to Paris, but otherwise countryside quiet.

The house now stood on the footprint of the old building, part of which was burned down in the early 1600's. It had a long family connection and there was talk about nobility some centuries back, but the line suddenly stopped so no-one was quite sure; although Athos's _maman_ had had some regal airs about her and there was certainly no shortage of money in the family, which had enabled Athos and Thomas to be privately educated.

The four friends usually tried to write off September, so they could spend a month brotherly bonding. Females were initially discouraged. This did not always work as half the house was rented out to families in the summer months, some of which were female, of course.

Constance had decamped to Geneva and was developing a lucrative private practice there, as part of an holistic therapy institute. She and Ninon had been known to rent a very nice gite two miles from the la Fere pile, but inevitably crashed the party, making their views on chauvinism very, very clear.

Septembers are spent therefore, eating, drinking, and recharging batteries. No work talk was allowed. The month of September kept them all sane.

Sometimes it was difficult and they arrived at varying times, hence the intention to take the whole month, so they could spend time together at some point in the month, if not all of it.

Now, a warm September evening found them all sitting in the orchard at the rear of the house; a private space surrounded by fruit trees, vines and creepers snaking up the rear walls. It was perfectly balanced. The garden was symmetrical, but softened with naturalistic planting. A line of Spring flowering Japanese cherry trees grew through an array of wildflowers, so that the overall impression was one of soft control.

An large iron pergola made the surrounding greenery more lush, and it was there that they usually sat, at a well used wooden table, glasses in hand, putting the world to rights.

When d'Artagnan had first been invited, he had turned up a week after everyone else, dropping his bags and whistling as he looked at the striking facade.

A good Catholic boy, and not wanting to take his Lord's name in vain, he was speechless, his open mouth a testament to that. Athos had been tempted to reach out and manoeuvre his jaw back in place, but resisted.

"It suffices," Athos said instead in his best faux bored voice, before pouring a drink and smiling at him. "We are all out of marzipan," he said quietly so that no-one else heard.

"Then it will have to be almond liqueur." D'Artagnan laughed.

He was beginning to fit in nicely.

It was good to see the respect that Athos commanded once again. He was almost back to his old self. In their early days, d'Artagnan seemed to be slightly in awe of him after he had sorted out his various addictions quietly and efficiently. They were aware that he still carried some demons, and all worried about the fact that he still twitched sometimes when they were out and he thought he caught sight of a green cloaked shadow.

This year, d'Artagnan had arrived only a few days after the others, but could not stay as long, so they would have to make the most of his company.

Right now though, the others had moved back into the house and d'Artagnan sat opposite him, as they both listened to the drone of insects and watched the light fade into a glorious sunset.

"Are you alright?" Athos asked quietly, studying the young man, who was sitting with his eyes closed enjoying the warmth of the last rays before they dipped behind the distant hills.

d'Artagnan lazily opened his eyes and looked across at him.

"Who's asking; the soldier or the therapist?" he said quietly.

Athos held is gaze for a moment, before he gave his answer.

"The brother."

d'Artagnan leant forward and placed his hand on Athos's forearm.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan smiled..."really," he added, before closing his eyes once more.

"You look tired."

"This will help," the young man replied, "It's so quiet here."

After a few moments, he opened one eye and looked across at Athos.

"I can still hear you," he murmured, "Your thoughts are _loud_."

Athos gave a low laugh, he probably could not argue against that.

"Just ... be safe," Athos replied quietly.

In the distance a church bell tolled, calling the faithful.

The moment was broken as a booming laugh came from the open French windows. Porthos and Aramis both toppled out noisily onto the patio.

"We come bearing food," cried Aramis, carrying a huge lasagne.

"Porthos has been cooking," Athos explained to d'Artagnan.

"In your honour, my young friend," added Aramis as he placed the dish reverently in the centre of the table.

"Great, I'm starving!" d'Artagnan exclaimed; sharing a final look with Athos before they were both swept into the delight that was Porthos's Italian extravaganza.

"I'll get the wine," Athos said, pushing himself reluctantly to his feet.

Walking behind d'Artagnan, he briefly laid both hands on his shoulders. As d'Artagnan reached up and covered them with his own, Athos looked around at them all.

"I was thinking we could take the horses out tomorrow ...they would enjoy a run."

d'Artagnan patted his hands then, and Athos moved away, heading back into the house.

"We could race!" Porthos shouted after him, knowing a bet when he saw one.

"I will bring my medical kit in that case," laughed Aramis.

Athos thought he would willingly freeze this moment and stay here forever.

oOo

And then, one sunny day in October, Clarisse Villiers walked into his office.

And everything changed.

oOo

He had walked into Reception on that bright autumn morning, and been handed a file by a nervous looking Receptionist. Putting his takeaway coffee down on the desk, he took the file and raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

"Someone to see you. I sent her upstairs."

"Does she have an appointment?" he asked, as he scanned the single paper in the file.

"No, sorry, but she was insistent."

He merely looked at the young woman, and she had the grace to look uncomfortable.

"She pulled rank," she finally said, deflating under the stare.

Athos liked order. He liked preparation. He did not like someone just appearing in his office.

"Pulled _rank_?" he said, raising an eyebrow again and squaring his shoulders at the word.

"She is George Villiers's wife. _Lady_ Villiers," the young woman said, turning away now, her job done.

Athos sighed, picked up his coffee, tucked the file under his arm and headed for the stairs.

 _George Villiers_? He ran the name through his mind. Drawing a blank, he headed toward his rooms.

He opened the door to his outer office and saw her sitting in a chair with her back to him. He stopped in the doorway and looked at the back of her head. She stood and turned around and for a brief moment, he nearly dropped his coffee. He did have to lean slightly into the door frame to steady himself. After a few moments, the feeling settled; she looked at him with cool green eyes and did not seem perturbed by his entry. If _he_ felt something, she did not seem to.

"Clarisse Villiers," she said, stepping close.

He looked at her carefully, taking in her features, red lips, and dark glossy hair, before reaching out his hand,

"Athos de la Fere," he said quietly, holding her gaze as she lightly took his hand.

"Please, sit," he added, and started to breathe again.

They spoke for half an hour. She had been vague, mentioning insomnia, before she started to look at her watch. She was meeting her husband for a luncheon which she needed to accompany him to, adding that she would be free next week. Athos left the office to return to the ground floor Reception to make her an appointment and fetch her coat, delayed a little by another client who wanted to update him on her progress.

When he returned, Clarisse Villiers was searching his desk. He retrieved the memory stick that she had copied some of his files onto, and his address book, and called the police.

oOo

Athos realised later that he _had_ heard of Lord George Villiers from his time in Afghanistan and briefings on drug dealing suspects from the MoD when they were trying to shut down the poppy fields. That had failed in favour of the local farmers, who needed the income, and all hopes of cutting the supply chain were dashed.

Villiers was Establishment, related to some of the more senior Ministers in Government, and he was untouchable. That did not mean they were not trying. His name kept cropping up, and couldn't be ignored indefinitely.

Athos was not surprised when he arrived at the court hearing against her to hear from his lawyer that the case against her had been dropped on a technicality. Neither she nor his Lordship had bothered to attend.

Over the next few weeks, though, he found he could not stop thinking about her.

oOo

To be continued ...


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks so much for the reviews and messages. This will be the end of Part Two, notes at the end.

Still a way to go though!

oOo

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

 **Introducing Lord George Villiers**

George Villiers was an hereditary peer, with a sense of entitlement. He had a large manor house in Buckinghamshire, which was part of the family "pile," handed down through the generations. He also had a three storey Georgian townhouse in a quiet street in Kensington, hidden away in a secluded mews.

He was rich, vain, and arrogant. Some would say he was handsome, but once they knew him, that opinion would be tainted, as it soon became clear he was a cold hearted, cruel man, who thought nothing about breaking the people he felt had wronged him. Once broken, they stayed broken. He did not do this himself; he had a small army of thugs only too willing to do his bidding if the price was right.

Villiers was the head of a global pharmaceutical conglomerate. That was his legitimate business. The rest of his dealings were hidden beneath a myriad of false corporations, the funds laundered and sunk within offshore bank accounts, all the subterfuge needed as George Villiers was a drug baron and arms dealer who walked a thin line with some of the world's most dangerous criminals, and operated within some of the most dangers supply routes.

He was also ruthless, greedy and vengeful. His eye was always on the prize. He had married Clarisse because she was beautiful and looked good on his arm. She was also smart and ruthless, and knew what she wanted. She wanted marriage. He admired that in a woman. She had married him because he was rich. She would use her title, "Lady" Villiers in contempt of all those who had held her down. She didn't love him, but she loved the lifestyle.

One man held Villiers trust, the man who had introduced him to Clarisse. He was the link with the dark underworld he needed to tap into.

His name was Jorge Marcheaux. He based himself in Paris, with its easy access to Europe and beyond. Now, Marcheaux sat in the plush Paris branch of Villier's empire, nursing three broken fingers, recently received when his shoulder was forcibly dislocated as a warning to Villiers from a particularly vicious psychopath in Turkey.

Marcheaux was a second rater, but he was cruel, impulsive and unstable. He latched on to whoever paid the most. In this case it was Villiers; before it was Feron, but he had been stabbed to death for failing to carry out an order from his own paymasters. It was a deadly game they all played, but the stakes were high and there was at least a small possibility of getting out alive. Which he intended to do, once he had betrayed Villiers; his plan already forming in his mind.

oOo

Sometimes, Clarisse almost enjoyed being with Villiers, if they were in company and she was distracted. But she had seen his temper, and had been on the receiving end; once having to hide the bruises on her throat with a ribbon, carefully tied around her throat. She was, therefore, very careful around him. He could be controlling, but mostly, he used her as adornment. Sometimes, a wife was needed at certain functions, and no doubt added the veneer of respectability. Luckily for her, the relationship soon became platonic, and she had no doubt his preferences lay elsewhere.

However, Marcheaux knew her secret. She had been a thief, crawling her way out of poverty. She knew she would never be truly safe from Marcheaux, but they had an uneasy alliance. They both wanted Villier's secrets.

Villiers had had a unique mechanism created by a locksmith to protect his secrets. It fitted into the door of his safe and it held six unique diamonds that slotted into it that released the mechanism, allowing access to the safe. The diamonds were cut in a precise way and weighed a precise amount. Villiers had stood over the man who created this elaborate mechanism while he finalised the fitting. After a demonstration, the man was no more use to him, and was a liability, so he was relieved of his life, courtesy of Marcheaux.

The file in the safe was in code. It held twenty years of very valuable inside information. Villiers was rather old school, and did not trust keeping his information digitally. He had been hacked several times, and it seemed that even the dark web was not as secure as it once had been.

It was a bit dramatic, she had thought, but easier than memorising a complex combination. And it summed Villiers up.

The diamonds were set into a necklace that she was allowed to wear on such occasions when he wanted to flaunt his wealth.

The problem she now had, was that two of the diamonds were missing, unclipped from their mounts within the necklace, and she would pay with her life if her husband found out. She had gone to the expense of having a duplicate necklace made, and on the rare occasions she had been required to wear it, she had ensured she kept her distance from her husband, lest he suspect.

Worse, Marcheaux knew, and had already hurt her. He wanted the diamonds and the file.

She knew who had taken the two diamonds, now she needed to find him, and then give Marchieux the contents of the safe, before he betrayed her.

Time was running out.

oOo

Athos had put his encounter with Lady Villiers to the back of his mind. It still annoyed him that she would attempt to steal from him, but he had retrieved the items she had taken, and could not see what it was she had been after. The British justice system had failed him, but then, it would have been a minor offence at most and he had been surprised it had actually got as far as court in the first place.

However, one month later, she appeared again in his outer office, as composed as ever.

"You owe me Athos," she had hissed after he had asked her politely to leave.

"I owe you nothing," he said turning away.

"You went to court to give evidence against me!"

"With good cause! It was my duty – and anyway, you got off on a technicality," he said, bored now, wanting her gone. Almost.

She moved close to him, invading his space, her hand resting lightly on his chest.

He did not move back.

She knew exactly the effect she was having.

"Can you help with memory retrieval?" she almost purred, holding his gaze.

"Memory retrieval?" he repeated, trying to get his brain into gear, beginning to drown in her eyes.

"It's important, my life may depend on it."

She dropped her hand stepping, _sauntering,_ away, her eyes holding his.

He hesitated then, but after a few moments thought, during which they did not lose eye contact, he sighed.

"Please, sit," he said, and started to breathe again.

She told him then about a man who was trying to blackmail her. When she resisted, he had slammed her head into a mirror at her home. It had affected her short term memory, and she seemed anxious to retrieve something, but was very cautious about telling him what.

Athos knew he shouldn't really help her, she was trouble. But something stopped him sending her away. So he explained he did not need to know what it was she sought, as long as she knew and could focus on it, from his point of view, he would merely call it, "the item." He promised nothing, but he had to admit, he was once more intrigued.

To be continued ...

 **END OF PART TWO**

 **A/N**

The National Society for Clinical Hypnosis is fiction, although there are national bodies, and I belonged to one, which had a strict code of ethics, and required graduates to undertake twelve master classes once qualified, plus supervision, and hold public liability insurance as a requirement of membership.

The herding cats episode was written as it actually happened; only my client was not rich, it was not a dental phobia and the chinchilla was a hamster. Otherwise, that was how I spent the evening!

Past life regression should only be undertaken by a professional, and never for entertainment.

"Clarisse" is the English pronunciation of "Clarick" in some translations of The Three Musketeers; a name used by Milady de Winter.

George Villiers was the Duke of Buckingham in the Dumas stories but in this story, he is only a namesake with an admiration for the French Bourbon dynasty.

Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**PART THREE**

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Squash. A game of tactics and skill.

Aramis and Athos were evenly matched; both keeping each other running. A spectator may not be able to tell them apart.

Aramis was slightly faster, but Athos was more skilled at keeping the ball low so his opponent had trouble reaching it before it bounced twice.

They usually ended the game sliding down the wall and sitting side by side, wringing wet with perspiration and laughing, totally spent.

Their matches usually ended in rallies, neither giving in until those extra two points were scored. Those rallies were sometimes so fierce they were not aware of the small crowd that had gathered above, watching the battle.

Afterwards, they both headed to the bar for a well earned pint. Or two.

"So, when are you seeing her again?" Aramis asked as they got settled, his question taking Athos by surprise.

"Who?"

"You know who, mon ami; you have been tense all week."

Athos did not usually discuss clients; certainly never naming them. But he had told them both briefly of Clarisse's reappearance, and so he relented;

"Thursday."

"Why are you helping her? She rifled your desk." Aramis continued. Athos should have known Aramis would be his tenacious self if he thought answers were needed. Athos sat back and regarded his brother, wondering if he could put it into words.

"I have asked myself the same question," he finally said, before adding, "Getting soft, I suppose," and giving Aramis a faint smile.

He had felt a gentleness settle on him since he had found his brothers, and started this work. The hard edges of the soldier had been worn down. Perhaps that side of him had always been there and was why he had chosen psychology all those years ago.

He lifted his pint and drained the glass.

"She interests me," he said finally, needing to end the conversation.

Aramis watched him but did not answer, but Athos did not miss the tightness in his brother's jaw before he picked up their glasses and headed back to the bar.

oOo

On Thursday of the following week, Clarisse, Lady Villiers, graced the Harley Street practise with her presence for the second time. She was half an hour early and he sensed her before he saw her outline through the frosted glass of his outer office. Apparently, she had flounced past the Receptionist with a regal wave of her hand. The girl had sighed heavily, aware that she was going to be in so much trouble for not warning him of her imminent arrival in his office.

He straightened his back and opened the door before she could walk in unannounced; waving her through, watching how she moved smoothly into the room. They settled into two straight back chairs, and he offered coffee, which she declined. After preliminaries, where he took as much information from her as she was willing to give, he explained what hypnosis would feel like. He felt uncommonly anxious to get on and so he stood and offered her a choice of two comfortable seats in readiness for commencing the session.

She settled into the large leather recliner by the window; and he invited her to close her eyes as soon as she was ready. He took the other chair and began.

" _Just listen to the sound of my voice_ ," he murmured quietly, keeping his eyes on her face. He crossed his legs and opened the bound notebook he used for jotting down any insights that occurred during trance.

He continued to deepen the trance, suggesting that her arms and legs were feeling heavy and she was sinking comfortably into the chair. She appeared to be a good subject and soon, her breathing changed and she became very still, her face relaxed. He allowed her ten minutes in a favourite place to ensure she was deeply relaxed before moving smoothly onto the issue of memory retrieval that she had requested.

He had been guiding her through a visualisation of her searching her memory for the "item" she sought when she suddenly stopped halfway through a sentence. She had seemed a little anxious, her brow creasing into a frown as she shifted position.

After watching her for a few moments, he quietly leant forward, realising something was going on for her.

"Where are you now?" he murmured, after assuring her he was there, and that she was safe in his room in Harley Street.

"A meadow, I think ...

"Can you describe it?" he asked softly.

"There are flowers ..."

"Tell me what you see," he prompted.

There was a long pause, during which he could see her eyes moving rapidly beneath her closed lids. She was seeing _something._

"A girl, no – a young woman ..." she whispered.

"Where is she?" he asked quietly, realising the trance had taken a different turn; his pen poised over the page of his notebook.

"She is sitting in the grass in the sunshine. She is surrounded by flowers..."

He paused while Clarisse continued to sit peacefully in the chair, her eyes closed but the rapid eye movement beneath them indicating that she was watching the scene she was describing.

She smiled then.

"She is sitting in a meadow on a bright summer's day; weaving small blue flowers into a long chain ...I don't know how I know this ...

... Now she's looking up, and is smiling at someone."

"Go on," Athos encouraged quietly, "can you see who she is smiling at?"

"It's a man, he waiting for her under a tree." Clarisse whispered.

"Do you know his name?" Athos asks quietly.

She frowned, her head down.

And then, she raised her head, eyes still closed.

"Olivier," she said, confidently.

He froze.

oOo

His mind was raising, but he allowed her to continue, remembering the young boy he had seen in his own trance when he had first met Treville.

"He is _very_ handsome," Clarisse was saying, bringing Athos back from his thoughts.

"See it as if it's a film unfolding," he said quietly.

"She is holding up her hand, giving him a small flower. He's saying something ..."

"Go on," Athos whispered.

"Anne. He's calling her Anne."

"He's reaching out his hand and pulling her up now ...;

My Olivier - she is saying, "My Olivier."

Athos was barely able to speak.

"Move on, drift forward in time a little," he finally said, his voice suddenly hoarse.

There was a pause then, as she seemed to relax under his guidance.

Suddenly, she tensed.

"There is blood...someone lying on the floor," she whispered.

Then, suddenly, " _She is hanging by a rope from the tree!"_

"Where is Olivier?" Athos asked quietly, maintaining his composure but his mind beginning to race.

"He's sitting on a horse, watching her hang!"

Athos told her it was alright, she was still safe in the room, but his heart was thumping now. Something very strange was happening, and he had to see this through, for both their sakes. This would be something Clarisse would remember after all, and they would need to talk about it.

"Go forward now," he murmured.

Suddenly, Clarisse straightened.

"Oh, it's her - She's not dead!" she cried.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered.

"She is older now. Angry, _very_ angry."

He allowed her to settle for a few moments, before continuing.

"Can you describe her?" he urged.

"She is very beautiful...she is standing against a wall, it's dark. I can just see her face; she is wearing a hood."

"Can you describe her further?" he said quietly, his throat dry.

He looked around for water, but he had forgotten to put any nearby. He almost knew what was coming. He looked at his notebook, but realised he had written nothing. He was staring at the blank pages when she said;

"A cloak, a long green cloak ...

Pause...

"But she is no longer Anne; she is "Milady"now - how do I even _know_ that? ..." she whispered.

Suddenly ...

"Oh my God, she just killed someone! – She's a homicidal maniac!" she cried, distressed.

Athos ended the session there.

An hour later, and half a bottle of brandy gone, and she was more composed.

He though, was not.

oOo

That night d'Artagnan dropped by Athos's apartment unexpectedly from the airport. Just as he opened the door and called out, the smoke alarms kicked in. The oven was beginning to pour black smoke, the smell of burning becoming obvious. Searching the apartment, he found Athos unconscious on the bathroom floor. He could smell alcohol, but turning him over, he saw a bruise on the side of his head; he had obviously hit his head on the sink on his way down.

He managed to drag Athos out onto the landing, where he recovered enough to hold onto d'Artagnan while he wiped his face with a damp cloth. Later, after the open windows had dispelled the smoke, he gave Athos an icepack for his head, since he refused to see a doctor.

What d'Artagnan did not know was that earlier, Athos had closed his bathroom cabinet and come face to face with the woman in the green cloak standing ethereally behind him. This time, he had seen her face clearly.

And she looked like Clarisse.

Exactly like her.

Which was too much to cope with and as his legs buckled, he cracked his head on the way down.

d'Artagnan could get no sense out of him now though, he had clammed up. Eventually, he looked at d'Artagnan and managed to thank him.

"Please, say nothing of this," he said, and d'Artagnan reluctantly agreed.

oOo

To be continued ...


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Thankfully, once the smoke had cleared and the burnt offering from the oven had been disposed of, it appeared that there was no visible damage to the kitchen.

Athos was now sitting in the dark, the ice pack still pressed to his head. d'Artagnan had reluctantly left. He had wanted to stay, almost coming close to insisting, before wisely backing off. He was concerned that Athos had sworn him to secrecy, but also conceded Athos needed time alone.

Athos felt guilty over his insistence on secrecy but for now, there was just too much going on in his head; he was beginning to feel overwhelmed. Things were beginning to move at a much faster pace; recent revelations leaving him feeling slightly out of control, which he utterly deplored.

He had come a long way since Musa Qala but had never forgotten the feeling of helplessness as a consequence of his injuries. Having to rely on other people for help had always been anathema to him, despite the work he did now and the quality of the people he now called friends; every one of them willing givers of love and care. He knew they had all struggled at some point to understand his inability to receive such attention, but it was a mark of their utter kindness that they persisted.

He should be able to figure this out himself, dammit, he thought. He was a psychologist for God's sake, and a master hypnotherapist. But there was also his history of grief, alcohol misuse, and head trauma to consider. Plus at the moment a conscious mind very much in control, which was doing an excellent job of talking him out of every decision he was trying to make.

 _Physician heal thyself._ Yes, well; how was _that_ working out, he thought to himself.

So all in all, he needed help; direction. He needed John Treville. John was now retired, at least from the Harley Street practise, having handed control to Athos over a year ago. However, he was still very much in control of his training organisation, and still very active on the lecture circuit.

When Athos eventually bought the practise from him, Treville had moved to a new apartment in St John's Wood, which he had chosen for its proximity to Lord's Cricket Ground. They had all managed to watch at least one Test match and several County Championship games together since he had moved there.

Treville was, therefore, still close by, and Athos still thought of him as his mentor. So he would just have to swallow his damn pride and call him.

In the meantime, a bottle of brandy would help. He resisted though, hearing Aramis's voice in his head muttering about alcohol and head injuries. So he picked up his phone and dialled the familiar number.

Treville was more than happy to see him over the coming weekend.

It had only taken moments to catch up, as they were both on the periphery of each other's lives, and then Athos got to the point of his call.

"John, do you remember when we first met and I had the image of the French boy and his father?"

"Of course, I remember it vividly," Treville replied, "Why do you ask?"

"Something has happened," Athos replied. "I need your help."

When Treville called by on Sunday afternoon, Athos explained that Clarisse Villiers had experienced seeing a young woman called "Anne" during their session, and that she had also seen Olivier.

"It seems that when moved on in time, "Anne" was the younger persona of the woman in the green cloak. In later life, she apparently went by the name of "Milady." Not only that, but this Milady seems to have lived a very violent life."

He then related the story of three nights ago, and how he had seen Milady's face quite clearly for the first time in the bathroom mirror, and that she looked just like Clarisse. It was as if _she_ had been standing behind him. He did not mention the effect that had had on him.

"So your client, Clarisse Villiers has a very interesting past, which appears to be bound to yours," said Treville, running his hand through his hair. "This is fascinating," he smiled.

"I'm glad you find it fascinating. At least I'm not going mad," Athos replied mournfully. "There does seem to be a connection running through all this. I just don't know what it is."

"There do seem to be a few missing pieces," Treville agreed.

"Yes, this "Milady" is persistent," said Athos, "but not malevolent. I don't feel threatened by her presence. If anything, there is a sadness. I'm certain she wants something from me. However, I do find her appearances somewhat unsettling."

Treville eyed the bruise on the side of Athos's head sceptically, hoping that Athos was right about Milady's intentions.

"Fortunately, we have the means to investigate," Treville said, smiling. "And I do like a challenge."

"I do not hold with past life regression particularly," Athos said, anticipating Treville's line of thought.

"That's fair comment, Athos," Treville replied. "But there must be something there, if these lives are connected, which they seem to be."

"There is nothing to suggest that it is reality, so it does not sit well with me," Athos countered.

"What about automatic writing?" Treville suggested. "It can sometimes give insights."

Athos had tried this self hypnosis tool before, with some good results. It did sometimes provide insight and it was simple to do. All that was needed was a good self hypnotic trance, a piece of paper and a pen. Once in trance, a simple suggestion for insight into a current problem often produced information from the unconscious mind. The unconscious mind works on its own, giving information to the fingers and the hand may start to write, while the person remains deeply relaxed in trance with their eyes shut. Apparently, it had been said that Mozart had received a whole symphony by this method.

That evening, Athos used self hypnosis to go to his safe place, a pen held loosely in his hand, and a sheet of paper resting under it.

Over time, Athos had developed a few "favourite places of relaxation" to use in his self hypnosis, but he always came back to one in particular.

In his mind, it was a large dark wood panelled room, with floor to ceiling windows that let in a huge amount of light. If it was sunny, the sun streamed into the room from each window in long shafts of light, pooling on the, in this particular trance, marble floor. Sometimes, his floors were mahogany.

There were several four seater brown leather sofas and two large armchairs facing the windows, so he could sit and stare at the panoramic vista in front of him – which he changed, according to his mood. Today, it was the face of Mount Rushmore, each President resplendent in stone, peering in different directions, commanding the edifice. Another time, he may be looking at an Amazon rainforest, or a huge waterfall.

He was usually alone in his safe place, unless someone turned up unexpectedly. He had had an interesting conversation about slavery with Abraham Lincoln once, and King Louis XIII had appeared on another afternoon, but the man made little sense, as he was over excited and wouldn't stay still.

Sometimes, it got very strange, depending on his mood, and the Sloth draped across one of his armchairs with a lugubrious look on its face was an indication of what his unconscious mind was capable of. That particular visitation was no doubt due to Aramis's recent view that all people should slow down and be "more like our friend, the Sloth," - to which they drank a Chianti filled toast.

One end of his safe place was taken up with a ten tier rack of expensive French wines. Floor to ceiling, the walls are decorated with paintings: Grunewald's Portrait of Christ was a particular favourite, although he was not a religious man. Guernica by Picasso, on the wall behind the sofas, opposite the window. Perhaps that one was there because it had been inspired by the Spanish Civil War, which he had a fascination for. He liked the way the light from the windows played upon it, highlighting each small element of the painting as it moved across its surface. It had appeared one day when he was staring through the windows at a hypnotic snow storm. He also had respect for Vincent van Gogh, whose paintings of sunflowers he sometimes gave pride of place to. That was more, he thought, because the man had been so underestimated during his lifetime, and had suffered from melancholia.

The imagined bookshelves on the other wall were full of first editions. One shelf held just books on war; The Art of War, by Sun Tzu; The Campaigns of Alexander, by Arrian; Paul Johnson's Napoleon. He knew why he had chosen those; he had read them all, and more.

So, today the floor was white marble from the quarries of Italy, the same quarries that Michelangelo had toiled in for the marble he carved his most famous Pieta from. That particular piece, in reality in St. Peter's Cathedral in Rome, sometimes made an appearance in Athos's safe place too.

One of his favourite things about this room was the lighting. He never changed that. Four large crystal chandeliers and hundreds of candles set around the room always relaxed him if it was a night time trance.

Sometimes at night, he would take the roof off and spend his quiet time staring, behind closed eyes, up at the constellations. If it was daylight, he would stare at the clouds, or perhaps a rainbow.

It was a masculine room, full of art, literature, fine wine and comfort.

And always, though he did not know why, there was a beautiful sword displayed on the wall.

That never changed. He had no inclination to do so.

He counted himself up slowly and opened his eyes, finding himself back in his own sitting room in Chelsea.

After several minutes reorienting himself, he looked down and saw that he had written something on the paper beneath his hand. Picking it up he read what was written;

" _There was a woman, she died by my hand. I loved her."_

He stared at the words that he had written.

What the hell was going on!

oOo

To be continued ...


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Having suggested automatic writing, Treville was expecting a call from Athos. When it came, he recognised the tension in his voice and agreed to meet straight away at the Harley Street apartment. Athos let him in, glass of wine in hand. Not a good sign so early in the day, Treville noted to himself. Athos passed him the note, and Treville sat down to read it, noting Athos's handwriting:

" _There was a woman, she died by my hand. I loved her."_

It seemed now that things _were_ moving fast.

"Well, you wanted insights. Perhaps it is time to look for Olivier once more," he said, handing the note back.

Athos was pacing, his usual logic and training failing him today.

"How do I resolve this?" he said urgently, beginning to feel overwhelmed by what he was experiencing.

Remembering Clarisse's experience of seeing Olivier as he watched as Anne was hung from the tree; was this what the note meant?

"For past life resolution, you need to take that life through its past death for closure," Treville said, "You know this – you have done it before."

"Closure of sorts; but no answers." Athos replied quietly.

"And, that would seem an act of betrayal," Athos continued, taking a gulp of his drink.

"Athos, from the time period you describe, Olivier has been dead of over four hundred years," Treville said gently.

"I know," Athos smiled then, "I am being irrational, but he may be an ancestor."

"Yes, perhaps." Treville replied.

Athos continued to pace; Treville watched him until he slowed and flung himself into a nearby chair.

"Alright, then let us do it," Athos said finally.

He raised his glass,

"To Olivier, then. Whatever happens."

"To Olivier," Treville replied.

oOo

Half an hour later, still in the apartment, but now settled into a large armchair, Treville began. Athos was now experienced and was able to achieve a deep trance state quickly. Having Treville there to direct the proceedings was very welcome though, and he trusted him completely.

Listening to the sound of Treville's voice, now speaking slowly, leaving a few seconds between sentences, he began to relax for the first time in several days.

"Deeply relaxed ...just listening to the sound of my voice..."

Treville's voice asked him to remember a courtyard ... long long ago... where he once met a young man called...Olivier."

Athos got a strong impression of the young man's presence, but this time, he could not see him. All was grey and indistinct.

"Move forward now, ten years...float forward ... what do you see?" asked Treville.

After a few moments, images began to appear.

Athos straightened, aware his arms and legs were feeling heavy, his eyes beginning to move rapidly beneath his closed lids.

"I see a courtyard ... buildings ... tables ... it's ... noisy ...

I see a man ..."

A pause ...

"It's him, but he is older now ...his hair is longer ..."

"What is he doing?" Treville asked, fascinated.

"He's fighting," Athos replied, his voice strained.

"Who is he fighting?"

A longer pause ...

"His friends," he smiled. "It's alright...they are not fighting. He is some sort of soldier." He smiled again. "He is a soldier," he said softly. "They are drilling."

"Use all your senses...what can you hear?"

"Something ... voices ... Head over heart...again and again..."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, they are calling him something ..."

"What are they calling him?"

A long pause, a frown, and then,

"Athos ...

They are calling him Athos!"

 **Later:**

"He has my name now," Athos said later, incredulous, looking at Treville;

"I don't understand, I have no knowledge of this man in my ancestry;

Although, the line did peter out many years ago," he added.

Treville said nothing, just letting him talk.

Finally, when Athos appeared to have settled and had run out of trying to make sense of what had just happened, Treville spoke.

"You can end this. You can go back in regression; if this is the cause of your conflict, you can go back and seek closure."

"I know, but that is why I dislike past life regression so."

"Explain?" asked Treville.

"Because as you know, you have to take them through their death and into the light in order that they achieve peace and their influence no longer affects you ... "

"So, what is the problem?" Treville asked, gently.

"I do not think I can bear seeing him die."

Athos looked at Treville, a look of such sadness in his eyes that Treville had to look away.

They sat in silence for a while, until Athos seemed to come to a decision then;

"He was happy sparring with his friends. I'd like to leave him there."

oOo

Later, as they sat mulling over what had happened, Athos took stock.

"These images are connected to Clarisse Villiers too. She has seen Olivier, Anne, _and_ Milady. But why do _I_ see Milady. What is it she wants from _me_?"

"I'm wondering if I should ever have started this," he said, exasperated.

"But you did not start it, Athos. Milady did." Treville replied.

oOo

That night, Athos dreamt.

He was in a room, panelled in dark wood. He was dressed in black leather, and facing a woman, who was wearing a long green dress with a fitted black bodice. Her long black hair flowed down to her shoulders. She looked like Clarisse.

 _But he knew it was not_.

Yet this was the woman he had seen clearly in the mirror. This was Milady. This was from another time, and he was seeing it through the man's eyes.

He gradually realised that when he spoke, _he_ was the soldier, Athos.

" _What will you do now?" he asked quietly, not looking at her, as she had turned her back to him._

" _Start a new life, in England, perhaps."_

" _It rains a great deal in England. And the food is ... puhh," he huffed in disgust._

" _Would it matter to you if I went?"_

" _You are free to do as you please," he replied in a voice barely audible._

" _I am not free, I am bound to you – as you are to me."_

 _She turned and looked at him then._

There it was. In his dream, he felt that look as if she were in the room.

Milady continued to speak ...

" _I have become this foul and ugly thing, this creature who cheats and kills without conscience;_

 _I don't want to be that creature anymore. I want to be as I once was with you;_

 _To feel hope, instead of this...deadness in my heart."_

He woke up suddenly, wringing wet and gasping.

A feeling of utter sadness descended on him.

Their sadness.

In his dream, he had somehow seen through a window into their world.

He realised then, that they were all bound.

oOo

To be continued ...


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

Aramis poured all his love and care into his three brothers and was obsessed with any minor injury or illness that availed them. Thus, he grilled Athos mercilessly about what had happened with Treville. D'Artagnan had kept his word and not spoken of the incident in the bathroom, but the bruise on Athos's head had not escaped him.

"These images are locked into my unconscious," Athos said, finally cracking under the interrogation as they both sat on the sofa, without the benefit of a drink, which Aramis had denied him.

Athos told Aramis all that had been unfolding, including his recent disturbing dream.

"It would seem my fate to help others with similar horror stories, but not myself," Athos sighed.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, mon cher," Aramis replied. "You were knocked unconscious, fractured your skull, and then spent ten days in a coma, so you never had chance to process the image of Milady that you saw in Musa Qala."

Something else was troubling Athos though, and now seemed a good opportunity to discuss it with Aramis.

It had taken Athos a long time to realise that he was being selective when choosing his clients, and had been avoiding taking on any veteran clients. He did not realise it, he had buried it so deep, but one evening he had gone through his computer files and realised he had dealt with PTSD for clients who had been involved in murder, rape, terrible accidents, attacks and violence, but never, a soldier.

"My God, Aramis, I am more damaged than I thought," he whispered, picking up the bottle of brandy from the table by the window, and staring down at the street below.

"No, my friend," Aramis said, coming over to stand next to him, his arm around Athos's shoulder, "You have been protecting yourself, you are allowed to do that."

"However," he added, "your memories are pushing their way into your conscious and causing problems. You must deal with it."

"So I should continue?" Athos asked him.

"I do not think you have a choice now, mon ami, this "Milady" has sought you out for a long time and obviously wants your attention," Aramis replied.

"But we are here to support you," he added, finally allowing him a glass of wine.

But events in the present were soon to overtake further investigation of the past.

oOo

A few days later:

Athos jumped when he heard the loud urgent knocking on his door. He was not expecting anyone. It had been a long day and he was about to jump into the shower.

He threw open the door in frustration and had to take a step back as she pushed past him.

"Quickly, close the damn door!" Clarisse hissed.

"How do you know where I live?!" he asked, taken aback.

She rolled her eyes, heading for the lounge. He sighed and complied. _Why did she always bring trouble_ , he thought to himself, following her.

She went straight to the window, moving the curtain and looking down into the street.

"What's wrong, is someone following you?" he asked.

"There is a problem," she said, her voice low. "Marcheaux thinks you know something."

"Who is Marcheaux and what does he think I know?" he asked wearily.

"He's George's man. He does the work George won't dirty his hands with. He's crazy, really out of control."

Athos groaned. He really didn't have the resources to withstand what Villiers might be planning for him.

"Well, now he knows where I live," he said, staring at her in disbelief.

"Oh, he will have known that from my first visit to your practice, my love."

"Great. Sit. Tell me," he said, resigned.

He poured two glasses of wine.

Before she started, though, he had a question,

"Why did you seek me out as your hypnotherapist of choice?"

"Harley Street practise; George was paying, although he didn't know it," she shrugged.

"And..." she added, "I knew Thomas. There aren't that many de la Fere's in London."

"Thomas?" he whispered, his breath suddenly punched away.

"He was my partner, until he ran out on me," she said, still peering down into the street.

"Partner?" he said, feeling numb, aware he was repeating what she was saying.

"Business partner," she replied, turning to face him, her face hard and unreadable.

"As in, providing money?"

Athos was still staring at her.

She moved over and sat gracefully on one of the sofas.

"When he ran out on me," she said, "he took two of the diamonds from the necklace George gave me. I have to get them back. They open the safe in George's office. But it takes all six of the diamonds from the necklace. They are precisely cut to slot into a purpose designed mechanism. The safe won't open without them."

"Why so complicated?" asked Athos, still reeling from her revelation about Thomas.

She shrugged.

"Because George has more money than sense. He is obsessed with the French Bourbon dynasty. Apparently, one of the Louis' had a very complicated locking mechanism on his Treasury door, built by a master craftsman. Probably totally unnecessary," she smirked. She grew serious then.

"George _will_ literally kill me when he finds out they are gone. Everything in that safe will incriminate him, _and_ the people he has dealt with. Too many people want his head as it is. I wanted to get there first and Thomas should have helped me but he disappeared to get away from Jorges Marcheaux. Apparently Marcheaux had already paid him a visit; he never trusted him. So Thomas ran out on me, taking two of the diamonds with him."

"Great," Athos murmured, downing his wine in one go.

"But why hasn't Villiers discovered this? Surely he would have wanted to open his safe by now?" he asked.

"The safe is like his safety deposit box, just locked up and forgotten about for years at a time; it's never opened. I've been on borrowed time for years, but now Marcheaux wants to make a move on George."

"Does Marcheaux know where these diamonds are?"

"Not yet, but he's becoming a little more ... impatient," she replied. "It's cost me a lot of money to keep him quiet."

Athos sat down heavily on the sofa.

So Clarisse and Thomas were opportunists. She saw an opportunity to steal from her husband, for whatever self serving reasons. Thomas saw an opportunity to make money.

Clarisse sighed,

"Thomas left me to face it alone."

Athos's heart sank. He had been under the impression Thomas had joined the Army to follow him, and he had carried the guilt of his resultant death with him since. It seemed he was just trying to save his own skin. He probably didn't realise he would end up fighting and dying halfway across the world.

"What were you searching for in my office?" Athos asked, trying to make sense of it all.

"Anything; where Thomas is, where the diamonds are..." Clarisse answered.

"Thomas is dead," he said bluntly.

"Oh," she said quietly. "I didn't know."

He told her the story.

She really looked crestfallen, but he had learned that there was more to her, and she was self-serving in the extreme. He didn't think he could attribute her current demeanour to grief.

As if to prove his assumption, she recovered quickly and asked him if he knew where the diamonds were.

"I have no idea! This is the first I have heard of it. Why should I know?" he replied, exasperated.

"Thomas must have left something behind – he couldn't take the diamonds with him into the Army!"

"I don't know, I lost touch with him a year before he joined up. That must have been when he was working with you."

"He had his personal effects sent to our home in France, and I brought them back to London on one of my visits home."

"Then let's look!" she cried.

"He only left a letter," Athos said sadly. "And a small box of his personal possessions, there's hardly anything in it."

"But..."

"But what?!" she cried.

"I have never understood the letter. He never wrote letters, but we all write one if we are going on a mission, in case we don't come back, so his was found in his room addressed to me, and they made sure I got it. As I say, the box turned up separately.

"It's here?!" she cried.

"No, his letter and the box are in my deposit box in the bank, a few miles away."

She looked panicked, so he told her to come back after the weekend and in the meantime he would retrieve it. She was obviously scared. Whoever she was scared of, this Marcheaux now knew where he lived. In the meantime, he decided to decamp to the Harley Street apartment and keep his head down.

Whatever Thomas had been mixed up in, the consequences could be far reaching and possibly deadly.

oOo

The following day, Clarisse was shopping at Jimmy Choo's with her husband's credit card when she heard her ringtone. Stepping outside, she looked at the screen on her secure mobile phone and sighed.

"Hello Hothead," she said, moving into a quiet corner.

Listening, she grew tense.

"Yes, I'm close; it's all in hand, as we planned," she snapped.

She kept it brief, as always, throwing the phone back into her Louis Vuitton bag.

He was an impatient man, she thought. But they both wanted the same thing.

At the other end of the phone, he gritted his teeth. He tolerated the name. It was better than the first one she had tried using on him, when they had set up their alliance.

oOo

To be continued ...


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N** Dear Readers: Many thanks for all your lovely reviews and messages. An AU _and_ hypnosis was always going to be an acquired taste, but I am so happy it has been received so well. Anyway, what has Athos got himself into? His quiet, safe life is about to be disrupted.

oOo

 **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

George Villiers was a very dangerous man, and his reach was wide. Athos was being pulled into something that was not of his doing but he had committed himself to helping Clarisse, and he would honour that commitment.

Once he had shown her Thomas's letter and meagre possessions, he could show her the door and that would be the end of it. He was never one to walk away from a fight, but he was no fool; he knew when the stakes were too high. And so, it was concern for the safety of his brothers that drove Athos to begin distancing himself from them. They usually gave him space when they realised he needed time on his own; he needed to shake them off until it was time to meet Clarisse one final time. Just a few days, that's all he needed.

In this instance, however, Athos had not reckoned on Porthos.

Four days later, Porthos appeared at the apartment in Harley Street, concerned that Athos's Chelsea home had been empty over the weekend whenever he called, with no word left. His neighbour had not seen him either, and on the Friday, his secretary had said he was "away from the office." If they called or tried to text, they were invited by an automated voice to leave a message.

Now, Porthos was banging on his door and shouting his name. Really? Athos thought; after just _four_ days?

Athos had opened the door with a heavy heart and a drink in his hand.

"My apartments are like the Arrivals Lounge at Heathrow," he sighed, turning and walking into the sitting room. Porthos followed him warily.

"I was worried about you," Porthos said, "What's goin' on Athos?"

"Why should there be anything going on? Anything more than usual, anyway," he replied, flatly.

Ok, thought Porthos, it was like that. But he wasn't going to let it go. He had seen how Athos could close down, and it was never good.

"How many of those have you 'ad?" he asked, nodding at the drink in his hand.

Athos rounded on him,

"Don't be so bloody patronising!" he yelled, slamming the glass down on the table and walking away from him.

Porthos pressed his lips together, waiting.

After a few moments standoff, Athos turned and fixed Porthos with a look that would see a lesser man look away. However, Porthos had been under that glare before, and he held his ground.

"Yes, _Captain_ ," he said, emphasising the word.

Athos was breathing hard, his back straight, still holding Porthos in his glare.

Porthos had never seen him so angry, so out of control, by his standards.

But it was Athos who looked away;

Porthos had hit his mark.

"I apologise," Athos said quietly; accepting defeat. "I owe you an explanation."

He waved Porthos over to the sofa and after a few moments gathering his thoughts, he put his head back against the headrest and spoke to the ceiling.

"It appears that before Thomas joined the Army, he became involved in a very dangerous game. He was working with Clarisse Villiers and her husband's thug warned him off; enough to make him get as far away as he could."

Wearily, he turned his head and looked at Porthos.

"What about this Clarisse; what do you make of 'er?" Porthos asked. He understood Athos's conflicting emotions and had learned to interpret them fairly accurately over the years.

"She is a thief and a liar and cannot be trusted!" Athos huffed indignantly.

"Apart from all that," said Porthos, "you like 'er, right?" he winked.

Athos's lips quirked. He could not deny the attraction though, but said nothing.

Porthos could interpret his silences too.

Becoming serious, Athos looked at him,

"These people know where I live. I thought I was protecting you both."

Porthos instantly stiffened, "No – you don't get to decide that," he said angrily.

Athos sighed, "You have all done so much for me these last few years. What have I done for you?"

Porthos huffed. For a moment Athos thought he would see his friend lose his temper and he braced himself.

Instead, Porthos smiled at him.

"You fishin' for compliments?" he said.

Before Athos could answer, the door opened and Aramis came in, with bags of take away Chinese food.

"Got your text," he said to Porthos, passing the food over, and throwing himself onto the sofa.

Looking at Athos, he patted the seat next to him,

"Update us, my friend," he said.

oOo

One week later, having retrieved Thomas's box from his bank, he was sitting in his Chelsea apartment.

As moral support, and because they had insisted, Porthos and Aramis were due to arrive soon to help him go through the contents with Clarisse.

Clarisse though, had arrived half an hour early and she was now sitting impatiently at the piano, tapping her fingers on the closed lid; anxious to get on.

He therefore unsealed the box and removed Thomas's letter. He stood for a few moments looking at it, lost in thought, before unfolding it.

Clarisse stood and came over and they both sat on the sofa.

She looked over his shoulder as he started to read it:

" _Brother,_

 _If you are reading this, I am dead – that's what they tell soldiers to say, isn't it? So, standard opening, then._

 _I've boxed up my personal effects and they will be sent to la Fere._

 _Look after them, they may not look much, but underneath it all, it's all I have._

 _You always said I shone the brightest._

 _I am sorry Athos if I let you down._

 _If it's a problem, please get rid of it._

 _I tried, but you were a tough act to follow._

 _I love you._

 _Thomas."_

"I don't understand it. It wasn't all he had. He had shares, some money, a small property. And he tells me to get rid of it if it's a problem. Why would this small box be a problem?"

Athos continued to stare at the letter, tracing his fingers lightly over his brother's handwriting;

"I never said he shone the brightest. I always said he was the favourite," he whispered.

They both looked at each other.

"He's trying to tell you something," she said, staring at him.

"So the parts that don't make sense are..." he said, pouring over the letter.

"...underneath it all, it's all I have,"

"...you always said I shone the brightest,"

"...and "if it's a problem, please get rid of it."

Athos picked up a nearby pen and underlined the words

" _underneath"_ and " _brightest"_

His voice caught;

"... and he said "sorry." He never apologised. He was a prat like that."

He opened the box and tipped out the contents. A watch, a gold pen, his passport, a few photos. Nothing of any significance, the rest of his belongings remained in the UK with the family solicitors. Why had he sent this to Athos then?

Clarisse leant forward and took the letter opener off the nearby desk.

"May I?" she asked.

"Alright, if you must," he answered quietly.

Reaching into the box, she ran the blade along the silky lining.

It came away, revealing a smooth wooden surface. Turning the blade, she tapped the wood with the pommel of the letter opener.

"It's hollow," she said, smirking, handing him the knife.

Athos pried at the wood until it loosened and a break appeared along the length of the box. Lifting it with the blade, it revealed a small hollow _underneath_. Inside the space was a blue pouch.

Athos passed it to Clarisse.

She opened it, and poured the contents onto her palm.

Two of the _brightest_ diamonds.

Athos sat back, stunned.

"At last," she breathed, holding one of them up to the light.

"Now we've found them, our problems begin," Athos said. "That's what he meant about getting rid of them."

He put everything else back into the box, closed the lid and placed it on the table by the fireplace. As he was gently running his fingers across the top of the box, there was a noise behind him and he turned to see Porthos in the doorway, a thunderous look on his face.

A steely voice came from behind Porthos.

"So, you two seem very close."

"Marcheaux," Clarisse said breathlessly.

Marcheaux stood behind Porthos, pressing a gun into the side of his neck.

"What's goin' on, Brother?" Porthos muttered.

Athos did not speak, but sent a silent plea for quiet to his brother, which was seen and heeded.

Clarisse succeeded in quickly folding her fingers around the two diamonds to hide them from view, before slipping them into the hidden adapted pocket of her skirt, which went down the length of the skirt and into the hem. If she was searched, they would remain undetected.

She sauntered over to Marcheaux, standing next to him.

"What kept you?" she murmured, laying her hand on his arm.

Athos stared at her.

"You bitch," he said, in disbelief.

So this was Marcheaux, he thought to himself, thinking he didn't look that imposing.

Buying time to gather his thoughts, he loosened and removed his tie, crumpling it in his fist as he undid the collar of his shirt.

"You don't need him," Athos said quietly, nodding at Porthos.

"Not your call," Marcheaux said quietly, before flicking the gun toward the door;

"We are required elsewhere. Move." he said.

Holding Marcheaux's attention, Athos reached quietly behind him and dropped his tie onto the top of Thomas's box in a smooth motion.

He moved forward then, walking across the room and submitting to Marcheaux's order.

Once through the door and onto the landing, all thoughts of overpowering Marcheaux faded at the sight of a very large, very ugly man standing in front of them.

"This is Leon," Marcheaux said casually. "He's ex KGB. He's got a very short fuse."

Confirmation of that came as Leon fell in behind Marcheaux and Porthos and grabbed Athos by the arm, shoving it painfully up his back, whilst at the same time, pushing a lethal looking blade under his jaw.

Clarisse sauntered along behind.

Marcheaux and Leon herded Athos and Porthos out of the building, Clarisse following, and into the waiting blacked out SUV. Keeping them both under cover of the gun from the passenger seat Marcheaux let Clarisse drive. Leon sat in the back to the left of Athos, the knife now pressed in his Athos's side. Their destination was the Kensington mews home Clarisse shared with her husband, George Villiers. She was very quiet on the drive, her mind working furiously.

To be continued ...


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

 **The Villier's Residence, Kensington**

Part of the charm of owning a mews house in London was that they were tucked away from the hustle and bustle of city life, usually in very exclusive parts of the city.

Built in the eighteen and nineteenth centuries, the houses were originally stables, with servant accommodation. Most mews houses therefore had been designed with stables and a coach house on the ground floor and a hayloft and accommodation for drivers and servants on the first floor. Most had no windows at the rear in order to secure privacy as they were, more often than not, built behind mansions. There was usually a tunnel under the garden which connected with the basement, so servants could come and go without disturbing the illustrious residents.

Now, they were highly sought after, due in no small part to being traffic free, relatively private and safe.

The Villier's house was no exception; part of a small enclave of white stucco mews houses, set on an original cobbled street. It was the perfect London home for such a wealthy, secretive couple, who also owned a mansion in Buckinghamshire, should they wish to spread out.

It was late afternoon as the vehicle pulled up in the quiet mews. Marcheaux pushed them through the door. Clarisse walked behind and locked the front door behind her. Turning, she opened a door on her right of the entrance hallway and Athos saw a flight of stairs leading down into what was presumably the basement of the house. Leon had disappeared along the hallway into the house, and Marcheaux now ordered Athos and Porthos to descend the stairs.

The room they walked into was windowless. It obviously stretched the length of the house and was panelled in pale wood, with matching pale wooden floor. This alleviated the lack of natural light somewhat. Along half of one wall were fixed an array of sixteenth and seventeenth century swords. Basket-hilted swords hung next to rapiers and sabres. The rest of the wall held more modern fencing equipment; epees and foils.

This was where George Villiers practised his not inconsiderable fencing skills, according to the many silver cups and shields in glass cases, and numerous photographs in evidence around the room.

The man himself was sitting at the end of the room, behind an antique mahogany desk. He was wearing what Athos recognised as a bespoke classic three piece grey suit, with a crisp white shirt and Italian handmade tie. Athos knew his ties.

Villiers was writing, and he continued to write; ignoring the five people who were now standing in front of him. With a flourish of his fountain pen, he signed the bottom of whatever he was writing. He then placed it in an open drawer to the right of him and closed and locked the drawer. Only then, did he deign to look up, taking them in; his eyes finally falling on his wife.

"Darling," he said, holding his hand out to Clarisse. She straightened, her whole demeanour changing. She relaxed and sauntered over, a smile on her lips. Taking his hand she moved to stand behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder. He then turned cold eyes on Athos.

"So, here we are, de la Fere," Villiers murmured, taking in Athos's black open neck shirt and jeans with a somewhat disapproving expression.

"I believe you have something of mine."

Athos remained silent;

He looked at Clarisse. She held his gaze. It seemed she had no intention of handing the diamonds over. Villiers obviously believed he had them. Athos had no idea why Clarisse was remaining silent like this, but she knew her husband so he had no option but to go along with it. She had said she was frightened for her life, but now he wondered just what her game was.

"I have no absolutely no idea what you are talking about," he therefore offered by way of reply.

Marcheaux hit him. The blow hit him hard in the stomach and he doubled over, his breath gone, the edges of his vision blurring. Porthos growled and stepped forward, but Marcheaux pointed the gun at Athos and silently warned him off.

Villiers merely smiled,

"I am not a fool," he said in reply, his voice low and deadly.

"No, you are a psychopath," Athos gasped, slowly straightening up.

"How so?" Villiers said. He was sitting back, smirking; his fingers steepled, elbows resting on the arms of his chair.

Athos managed to pull in a deep breath;

"You appear to show a general poverty in major affective reactions and a lack of remorse or shame," Athos replied quietly.

It earned him a back hand from Marcheaux. True to form, Villiers showed no emotion.

"My point in a nutshell," muttered Athos from the floor, spitting blood from a cut lip.

Villiers slowly stood and moved from behind the desk.

"Well, as nice as this is, I have things to do. I will give you one hour to consider your position, and then Jorges will return to discuss progress," Villiers smiled briefly at them. Pointing at Porthos, he said, "This one comes with us. It may help you to remember."

With that, Marcheaux waved the gun at Porthos.

Porthos did not move for a moment, looking at Athos. They shared a look, and then Porthos gave him a smile;

"Captain," he said.

"2nd Lt.," Athos replied dipping his head.

Porthos then allowed himself to be moved toward the door, the gun now firmly in his back.

Clarisse made to follow, but Villiers suddenly grabbed her arm. Holding her by the throat, he pushed his face close to hers and snarled,

"No, my love, that goes for you too. You stay."

She froze and her eyes widened as she gasped for breath. He let her go and pushed her aside, then he followed Porthos and Marcheaux out of the room without a backward glance.

Clarisse held her throat briefly as she leant into the desk, catching her breath before straightening and once more composing herself.

oOo

"Well, this is not good," Athos said calmly, pushing himself up onto his feet, dabbing his lip with his sleeve.

She crossed the room to help, but he shook her off angrily.

"You used me. You set a trail, and you reeled me in. Was _anything_ you said true?" he hissed.

"Of course it was!" she cried.

He shook his head in disbelief.

"Look, I had to make it look good; Marcheaux had to believe I was looking for the diamonds."

She smiled at him. It did not warm him.

"I needed to buy some time. I saw it in a film once," she continued, "using hypnosis to retrieve a memory. It amused me."

"It amused you?!" he said in disgust.

"It fitted perfectly! I was trying to find Thomas after all. You could have easily been in on it!"

"Believe me, my brother and I are very different people," he said, his voice low with anger.

"I thought I could fake the hypnosis, until I found something," she continued. "I was doing ok, until "Anne" showed up. And, I did have my head slammed into the mirror. That was true," she pouted, giving him one of her looks.

The mirror at the end of the room was the one Marcheaux _had_ slammed Clarisse's head against when he was trying to persuade her to tell him where the diamonds were. Fortunately, Marcheaux didn't break the mirror with her head, or there would have been hell to pay. Her husband was very particular about this room.

"So you were stringing Marcheaux along." It wasn't a question.

"Of course. The man's a talentless thug. The only thing he's good at is smashing heads. It was his fault Thomas ran," she replied, tossing her head. He watched as her hair fanned across her shoulders.

"You play a dangerous game; your husband is a vicious criminal," Athos said, looking away.

"Yes, there is that," she said, leaning forward and wiping his face. This time he allowed it.

She leant against him and put her hand in his.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I never meant it to go this far. I underestimated Marcheaux – and his madness."

"Good job I've got a hard head," Athos said, meeting her gaze. He'd certainly tested that assertion recently, he thought.

"He's not half the man you are, you know," she purred, peering up at him.

He laughed and shook his head. She really was unbelievable. He wondered what she had had to do to keep Marcheaux onside.

"Marcheaux aside, were you working alone?" Athos asked then.

"No, once Thomas ran out on me, I acquired another partner. He was a bit pushy, impetuous even. I call him "Hothead" to wind him up. We just wanted to bring George down quickly."

"I do regret getting you into this," she added.

"And Thomas?" he said quietly.

"He was young, Marcheaux could be very persuasive. Don't think too badly of him."

Athos considered how very persuasive Clarisse could be when she turned on the charm. Thomas wouldn't have stood a chance.

"I don't think badly of him. He died with honour," Athos murmured, although it seemed an alien concept now.

He slid down the wall and sat on the floor once more.

"That's his piano in my apartment," he said suddenly, his voice catching;

"It was his eighteenth birthday present from our parents. He was a wonderful pianist for one so young," he added quietly, taking more comfort from that than the manner of his honourable death.

"What did you get?" she asked, sitting down next to him.

"Gap year," he smiled faintly.

"Did you break some hearts?" she asked mischievously.

"Oh, I think the honour was all hers," he whispered, momentarily lost in the past.

He was quiet then, and she left him to his thoughts, before she finally broke the spell.

Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his.

Despite everything, he responded; his defences breached.

"Damn you," he said quietly, as he slumped back.

She smiled.

"Anyway," she whispered, "We are bound, you and I, through time it seems, whether we like it or not."

"Yes, "Milady," we do appear to be," he smiled back.

"What are we going to do?" she said then, looking around.

"No idea. But Porthos is not a patient man, so it may not go entirely their way."

oOo

To be continued ...


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

Aramis had arrived at Athos's Chelsea apartment, to find the door slightly ajar and the apartment empty. The alarm was not activated.

Moving cautiously into the room, he looked around. There were some signs of disarray. Athos liked order and something was off here. Standing in the middle of the room, he slowly turned, taking in all the room by degrees, until his eyes fell on the small table next to the fireplace and he saw Athos's crumpled blue silk tie.

That was not right.

One; it wouldn't be crumpled, Athos didn't _do_ crumpled. And two; he would not have left it on the table when its place was hanging with the rest of his ties in its rightful purpose-designed space in his closet.

Both he and Porthos had been trained to tidy up after themselves when they visited; Athos did not countenance disorder.

Reaching out and picking up the tie, he saw the box for the first time. It was small and elegant with and engraved cartouche on the lid, with the initial "T" in the centre. He realised that this was the box Athos had retrieved that they were all supposed to go through together. Lifting the lid, he pushed aside the contents and saw that the bottom of the box had been broken into. Clarisse must have got her diamonds. But where the hell was Athos?

He gently closed the lid and stared at it, tracing the "T" with his fingers.

Aramis was lost in thought now, drifting back;

 _Thomas_. He should have died on the spot from his catastrophic wound. The ambulance had arrived as fast as it was able, and in the meantime, his mates had kept him going with compressions. There was a spark there, and Thomas had been stubborn; but that spark was going out. As he was loaded into the back of the ambulance, Aramis climbed in with him, aware that the lifeline he was holding was a thin gossamer thread.

The memories were came flooding back, thick and fast now;

 _Trying to keep his balance, as the army ambulance raced across the desert toward the hospital, desperately working on the ambushed soldier._

" _Aramis ... we're losing him!"_

 _Blood, so much blood ... pumping out from the massive stomach wound with every heartbeat._

 _Counting, counting, his hands locked together on the boy's chest, pushing his sternum down, willing the heart to keep going._

 _His hair in his face, sweat dripping off his chin onto the boy as he continued to pump._

" _Come on ...Come on ... Come ON!"_

 _Strong hands then, pulling him back,_

 _Resisting ..._

" _Aramis, he's gone."_

" _ARAMIS!"_

" _He's gone."_

 _Falling back onto the bench._

 _Pulling off his bloodied latex gloves and throwing them on the floor at his feet._

 _Head in his hands, spent._

 _The ambulance slowing..._

 _...the need to get to Camp Bastion no longer urgent._

Aramis remembered the sense of failure had been overwhelming, as he sat where he had been pushed, while his colleague covered the boy's face with a clean sheet.

Slowly coming back to himself, Aramis tried to phone Porthos but there was no reply, which was unusual; he should have been here by now. He ran his hand through his hair; something was very wrong here; he needed to call the police, but just as he was about to punch the number, it started ringing, making him jump.

Hearing the familiar voice he stopped dead.

D'Artagnan spoke briefly, "I can't tell you anything, but I want you to go to this address now."

Aramis memorised the information and then he bolted into the street to hail a cab to Kensington.

oOo

After Clarisse had told Marcheaux about the cryptic letter that Thomas had sent to his brother, he had followed her to de la Fere's apartment the following weekend, not trusting her now that the diamonds may be within reach.

Villiers had been incandescent with rage when he had told him of her betrayal, carefully keeping his own involvement out of it. He had then brought de la Fere and his wife to him, as he had ordered.

de la Fere knew where the diamonds were, Marcheaux was certain. Clarisse knew what was good for her, although he had never trusted her. But he was in control now.

Before he and Leon had overpowered Villiers and tied him firmly to a chair in his study, Marcheaux had explained to him that he had done his bidding for far too long, and they would shortly be parting company. As he stuffed his mouth with his own silk handkerchief and tied the gag tightly, he whispered that he needed him alive for just a little while longer before taunting him with the parting thought that a woman and a "trusted" colleague had finally brought him down. _Such poor judgement_ he had sneered, before closing the door.

oOo

In the basement, Clarisse was looking through Villier's desk, and considering whether to hide the two diamonds in plain sight. She looked over to Athos, now wearily sitting on the floor, slowly rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt. It was getting warm and oppressive in the windowless room. Neither of them had had anything to eat or drink since she had arrived at Athos's apartment much earlier in the day.

The door was suddenly flung open and she saw Marcheaux standing alone in the doorway.

She had seen that look before.

Athos turned then, and seeing him, he sighed and pulled himself to his feet. Looking at Clarisse warily, he held up his hand for her to stay where she was, but she was already edging around the desk toward him.

Marcheaux walked calmly to the wall, and took down a rapier, flexing it up and down.

Turning to them, he smirked.

"Might as well put all the sparring Villiers' had me do to good practice," he said menacingly, pacing up and down in front of them, swishing the blade.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

"So you are going to kill us both with one blade?" he said.

"I am going to kill _you_ ," he sneered. "I believe she's got what she wanted from you, including the diamonds. She knows a good deal when she sees one, and once Villier's safe is open, there will be information to sell and six diamonds to share between us."

Athos laughed.

"You really think she believes you will allow her to live?"

 _And did he really think she would share, he thought._

Instead of answering, Marcheaux lunged at him.

Athos sidestepped and kicked out, catching Marcheaux on his knee, and making him stagger back. Before he could find his feet again, Athos grabbed a sword off the wall.

"Where is Porthos?" Athos asked quietly as he flexed the blade, beginning to circle Marcheaux.

"It doesn't matter," Marcheaux answered. "As soon as I'm finished here, he dies too."

Satisfied that Porthos was still alive, Athos lunged at him, catching Marcheaux on the shoulder.

Hissing, Marcheaux came at him, slashing wildly. There was no finesse; he was out of control, high on adrenaline.

Athos matched him, blade for blade, and soon they were both out of breath, but neither could afford to slow.

Athos lowered his shoulder and threw himself into his opponent, circling quickly away, out of range.

Marcheaux staggered, and then came back with his blade held high, aiming for Athos's head. Athos held the blade in both hands and threw it up to block the downward motion, and his own blade was driven downward by the force so he had to twist his body and follow the blades down into the floor.

His blade stuck fast in the wooden floor, and as he took a moment to pull it free, he felt the sting as Marcheaux's blade flew across his bicep. His adrenaline level surged and he recovered his stance, moving quickly back and began to circle again, looking for an opening to slice into Marcheaux's body.

Marcheaux lunged, a quick double step, and landed the flat of his blade on Athos's, throwing both blades downward once more, and then he threw his weight into Athos, who staggered back. Losing his footing, Athos fell backward, crashing into the wall. Silver cups went crashing to the ground from the shelf behind him as he slid down to the floor, he hands raised to protect his head. He saw then that Clarisse was moving around the desk, intent on intervening somehow, and yelled at her to stay where she was.

That only drew Marcheaux's attention to her and he whirled and raised his rapier above his head and started toward her. She saw him coming and instinctively stepped back, but was now trapped against the desk behind her and was unable to move.

Athos had but one option, he got quickly to his feet and threw himself against Marcheaux's back, his right hand still holding the rapier, but now locking his arm around Marcheaux's raised arm. He threw his bodyweight backward, sending both of them crashing to the ground. Rolling away, he caught Clarisse's eye and saw she was unharmed.

She shot him a faint smile; a look of relief. Here was Athos the soldier, she thought; past and present.

Marcheaux found his feet and threw himself toward the still prone Athos, his blade held high, a scream on his lips. But Athos managed to hold his blade across his body for protection as Marcheaux brought his blade down.

Athos raised his foot at the last moment, placing it firmly against Marcheaux's chest, pushing him backward before changing the angle of his blade; as Marcheaux automatically pushed back in toward him, Athos deftly ran his blade through him.

Marcheaux's eyes went wide, and blood flooded his mouth. Athos rolled to his left, at the same time pulling his sword out of Marcheaux's gut. He moved out of the way as the man dropped his sword and fell face down at his side; shuddering violently before his body went slack and his final breath hissed long and ragged from his lips.

Athos lay for a few moments, catching his breath, before getting to his feet.

Clarisse stared at him,

"How did you do that?"she said.

"I have absolutely no idea, I have never held a sword in my life," Athos replied, tossing the sword aside, striding toward her, and grasping her wrist.

Pulling her toward the door, he did not see Leon. The man surged into the room and felled him with a blow to the head with the butt of his gun, sending him crashing to the floor.

Nor did he see d'Artaganan and his team coming down the stairs behind Leon, shooting the man before he could finish the job. Checking he was dead, d'Artagnan straightened and looked at Clarisse. He stepped deftly over Leon's body and grabbed her arm. His eyes flicked then to Athos, lying unconscious on his side, bleeding from a wound on his forehead.

She coolly met his gaze.

"Hello Hothead," she said,

"Just a little late, darling," she added, staring down at Athos.

oOo

To be continued ...


	21. Chapter 21

**CHAPTER TWENTY ONE**

D'Artagnan tightened his grip on Clarisse's arm.

"Where's the safe?!" he hissed.

She hesitated.

"What about him?" she said, looking down at Athos.

"It's ok, he's a friend; we have a medic with us," d'Artagnan said, pulling her away. As much as he desperately wanted to check on his injured brother, it wasn't his job; he couldn't stop until his mission was complete.

She resisted, watching to make sure it was true, seeing a black clad man crouching down next to Athos.

"He saved my life," she said, looking up at him then.

"He does that," d'Artagnan replied, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Moving his hand to his headset he spoke quickly to the team outside on the cobbled street.

"All secure. Two perps dead in the basement. Villiers is secured on the first floor. We are about to retrieve the folder."

Getting confirmation in his earpiece, he spoke again; seeking the brother who he knew would now be standing anxiously in the street.

"Aramis? ..."

After a few seconds, he heard Aramis's voice in his earpiece,

"Here."

d'Artagnan let out a breath;

"We have them."

"Alive?"

"Yes..."

"But?"...Aramis snapped anxiously.

"Athos ... head injury," d'Artagnan said.

There was silence on the other end, then Aramis said, "I'm coming in," before clicking off.

Hearing static, d'Artagnan clicked off too.

"Damn." Aramis said, before he moved quickly toward the building.

He had to move aside as Porthos was ushered out by some of the back clad soldiers, but Porthos caught his arm, stopping him.

"What?!" he demanded.

Aramis reached out quickly and put his hand on his chest, meeting his gaze.

"I don't know. He's down."

He pulled himself from Porthos's grasp and disappeared into the house. Porthos stared after him, before being bundled outside.

Meanwhile, d'Artagnan accompanied Clarisse to her bedroom to retrieve the necklace. She crossed the room to a gold framed mirror, swinging it aside to reveal her own small safe. Tapping in the combination, she swung the door open and grabbed the necklace. She slammed the door as he pulled her back, impatient to get back to the basement.

As she allowed herself to be dragged along, she took a last glance at her opulent room, the last she would see of it.

Back in the basement, Aramis did not look up as she came through the door with d'Artagnan.

His attention was with Athos; he had now taken charge and was crouched next to him, engrossed in ensuring he was safe enough to be moved. d'Artagnan's colleague had already checked his airway and then relinquished control to Aramis, who was now gently rolling him onto his back. He took the gauze pad handed to him by the other man and firmly pressed on the wound in his hairline, while peeling an eyelid back with his other hand. One pupil was normal, but the other was blown wide.

Not good.

He had no equipment with him, but he knew the ambulance was on its way and due at any moment, so he sat on the floor next to Athos and held his hand, waiting for the paramedics to arrive.

d'Artagnan moved Clarisse across the room, away from the activity and she pulled her eyes away from Athos and headed to one of the glass cabinets behind Villier's desk. Although it was full of championship silver, the whole of it swung forward away from the wall when she flicked a switch underneath, to reveal the safe built into the wall. Cut into the front was a ten inch recess with six indentations across its length.

She unclipped four diamonds from their setting in the necklace and dropped them carefully into the mechanism. She then took the hem of her skirt and turning it up, ripped it open to retrieve the two she had hidden earlier. She fitted those into the remaining two indentations.

The six diamonds then dropped down, and the safe opened with a quiet hiss. She pulled the door open and reached inside and took out the folder, handing it to d'Artagnan. She could feel the tension flowing from him.

"Very James Bond," he muttered, tersely.

Clarisse sighed.

"I trust I am free of that awful man now?" she said, raising an eyebrow at d'Artagnan.

"Yeah, they're picking him up now, it should be all over the news tonight," he replied.

He went across to Aramis then and crouching down, put his arm around him. He just had time to put his hand out and touch Athos's still fingers before someone pounded down the stairs to tell them the ambulance had arrived.

oOo

The dark street in the quiet London mews outside the Villier's house was heaving with black clad figures and police cars. Lights came on in the houses and irate neighbours threw open their doors at the noise, only to quickly retreat back into the safety of their homes.

d'Artagnan and his team kept their black headgear on to preserve their anonymity from those neighbours curious enough to take photos on their mobile phones. An ambulance drew up with flashing blue lights but thankfully no sirens. The paramedics jumped out with a stretcher and ran into the house.

Porthos stood in the middle of the Special Forces team being debriefed on the outcome, anxiously waiting for Aramis to reappear.

The light on top of the ambulance continued to rotate, casting intermittent blue light across the front of the white residences. Some of the houses now had firmly closed curtains and blinds; some had anxious faces peering out behind the safety of sash windows.

Time ticked by and Porthos was beginning to strain against the arms that held him back.

Suddenly there was a flurry of activity and Aramis appeared alongside the stretcher. Porthos caught sight of the motionless figure under a red blanket.

Aramis was firmly in charge of the paramedics, outranking them but also too personally involved to relinquish control of his brother to strangers, albeit caring ones.

The two paramedics wheeled the stretcher to the back of the ambulance and quickly loaded it on board. Both then went to the front of the vehicle and climbed into the cab as Aramis jumped into the back. He quickly scanned the figures in the street, spotting Porthos, he urgently motioned him to join him. Porthos hurried across and jumped on board, slamming the doors behind him and the ambulance started to move. This time, they did put the siren on.

d'Artagnan and his team got into their unmarked black van and they too disappeared into the night.

The street became quiet, and only one police car remained, its handcuffed occupant under cover of a blanket in the rear. However, all the neighbours knew who he was.

oOo

Inside the ambulance, Athos heard voices he recognised. Someone was rolling his sleeve up. He could feel the motion of the vehicle and hear the noise of the siren. Nothing else made sense, until someone called his name.

"Athos ... open your eyes for me, my friend."

An image of a French soldier sparring in a courtyard swam into his brain. If he opened his eyes, what would he see? But then the pain hit him and he let out a gasp and opened his eyes at the same time, momentarily blinded by the bright interior light above him.

A face swam into view, and he recognised Aramis. For a moment, he thought he was back in Camp Bastion and his chest contracted. He put his hand to his forehead, and it came away bloodied; he tried to sit up but a hand against his chest firmly pushed him back down. Flat on his back, he was helpless and still couldn't quite get his breath.

Then someone put a light hand on his jaw and gently turned his head, and he saw Porthos.

"S'alright, Aramis has got you," said the familiar voice, and he relaxed a little.

Porthos let go, and Athos turned to find Aramis.

When he saw him, his panic eased, but was then replaced by anger.

"Don't, dammit," Athos whispered, watching Aramis as he prepared a syringe.

"It's for the best, mon ami, until I can examine you properly," Aramis countered, in no mood to argue.

But Athos couldn't tell Aramis that Milady was also in the ambulance, because Aramis plunged the needle into his arm; whatever he injected worked quickly, and Athos tipped over the edge into total darkness.

oOo

To be continued ...


	22. Chapter 22

Just three chapters to go now ... Milady wants a word, and d'Artagnan explains.

 **CHAPTER TWENTY TWO**

The room was in the private wing of the hospital; Aramis pulled rank to ensure his brother was comfortable.

Porthos had had a difficult conversation with Aramis on arrival, because Aramis had taken matters into his hands even though Athos had woken up in the ambulance, and could have held a conversation with him. Now Athos was unconscious and it looked like Aramis was keeping him that way.

"No! I am not having this conversation," Aramis had countered. "He had a choice; he could let me sedate him, or he could watch that woman behind me. Because that was what he was seeing. She was there! It was obvious; I saw that reaction before, in Camp Bastion. He _had_ to stay still, so I took that choice away from him. I know I didn't ask for his consent," he finished, "I could not let him make the wrong choice, mon ami; he can take it up with me when he's recovered."

He'd turned to walk out then, but before he left, he looked Porthos in the eye;

"I'd do it again in a heartbeat," he said, before he walked out the door.

Once more, Porthos found himself studying the chart at the end of his bed.

Athos looked peaceful enough, but the needle on the EEG indicated periodic increased brainwave activity, which Porthos watched with a heavy heart, wondering what was going on in Athos's head.

At least that was the only machine in evidence, and it was purely for monitoring purposes, apparently.

For clinically sound reasons, but despite Aramis's best intentions, Milady stalked Athos over the next three days in his Aramis-induced coma; a melee of sadness, anger and regret, the words she said torn from a frustrated heart that had had no peace for a long, lonely time;

 _I don't want to be that creature anymore._

 _I want to be as I once was with you;_

 _To feel hope, instead of this...deadness in my heart."_

Over and over, and there was nothing he could do about it.

oOo

"It's not like before, Porthos, I've just put him to sleep for a while," Aramis said later; his hand on his shoulder.

"He ain't gonna like it," he muttered, still not convinced.

It was like déjà vu for Porthos.

He pushed images of hours sitting behind blue curtains in a tented hospital to the back of his mind. At least this time he took comfort from the fact that eight stitches and a large dark bruise was the only visible evidence that something had happened. Plus a split lip and gash on his bicep; now sutured.

Aramis had explained he had been hit on the forehead, the hardest part of the skull, and nowhere near his original injury. He then explained the blown pupil, and the need to keep him still; and in the end, Porthos accepted it, reluctantly, knowing what Athos's reaction would be.

He was right. When Athos woke, he was in a very bad humour.

oOo

He woke to his last memories:

Fighting.

Fighting Marcheaux and wanting to fight Aramis in the ambulance.

Instinct took over, and he raised his fist.

Porthos closed his big hand gently around it.

"No," he growled softly, peering down at him.

Athos stared at him, confused.

Porthos looked into his friend's eyes; and saw his pupils were normal now;

"Still primed for combat after all this time," he smiled, pushing Athos's arm down and patting it fondly.

Porthos held his confused gaze, before he smiled, reassuringly,

"It's over. Our little brother saved us," he said quietly.

Athos stared back uncomprehending, but feeling the comfort of that smile; he drifted off again.

oOo

It took two hours to fully wake up; his eyelids opening and then falling shut again, beyond his control. Porthos ensured he remained in his line of vision the whole time, waiting, drinking coffee.

Finally, his eyes stayed open, and Porthos pulled his chair closer.

Athos looked in pain, as if he wanted to say something; so Porthos leant forward expectantly;

Athos looked at him earnestly;

"I need to pee."

Porthos raised his eyebrows.

"After all we've been through, these are your first words?"

Porthos laughed, then,

"Go ahead; you're all bagged up," he said, patting his arm.

Catching his meaning, Athos groaned and his hand curled into a tight fist, the knuckles white.

He looked like he wanted to punch someone. Porthos suspected that person would be Aramis.

A short while later, a young nurse came in to remove the IV line that had kept him hydrated. She pushed the stand to one side and then bent over to remove the cannula from the back of his hand.

Athos, still in a belligerent mood, watched her, not taking his eyes from her face as she went about her task.

She became flustered under his steady gaze and made the mistake of looking at him. She became uncomfortably mesmerised for a moment before quickly finishing and fleeing the room, muttering about getting a male nurse to finish the rest.

She had obviously been sent in to remove _all_ the lines and tubes attached to his body.

"You Bastard," Porthos chuckled, from across the room.

Athos smiled at that.

The smiled dropped away when a large male nurse appeared ten minutes later, snapping on latex gloves. Pinning Athos to the bed with a steady glare, he reached out and pulled the sheet aside. He had obviously been informed about his patient's recent antics.

Porthos had the grace to leave the room, but Athos could hear him laughing all the way down the corridor.

Later, Porthos reappeared,

"I've let d'Artagnan know you're awake; he's gonna come and explain everything," Porthos said, settling in once more to the now familiar chair. "He's been worried about you," he added.

"Are _you_ alright?" Athos asked Porthos then, reaching for his hand, as it was all beginning to come back to him.

Although Porthos had emerged unscathed from the incident, his scraped knuckles indicated he had inflicted some damage on Villier's men.

"I'm good, thanks to d'Artagnan and his team," Porthos smiled.

Later, d'Artagnan made his way to Athos's room. They greeted each other warmly, but both Athos and Porthos needed answers, so d'Artagnan settled himself into a chair;

"Clarisse Villiers was working for us," d'Artagnan began.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look of amazement.

"Yes, before my time, but apparently, she has an interesting skillset. She was recruited after Thomas abandoned her. We guaranteed her protection from Villiers, she couldn't afford not to accept.

Her mission was to get the safe open so we could retrieve his file. Marcheaux found out about her and Thomas working together to cheat Villiers. Thomas fled after Marcheaux threatened him, taking two of the diamonds, and Clarisse faked the memory loss to buy time. She looked you up because you were Thomas's brother. She thought he might have changed his identity and gone to ground, but that you would know where he was."

Some of this Athos knew, but there was more.

"Is that why she got off on a technicality when I first met her?" Athos asked.

"Yes, we didn't want her distracted," d'Artagnan replied.

"Did your people know Thomas had joined the Army?" Porthos asked him.

"Eventually. We'd searched for him; checked all the airports of course, but he left the country by military aircraft so it took a while. We didn't tell her he was dead. She'd contacted you by then, and my bosses wanted to see how it played out."

Athos let that all sink in, not sure he liked being a pawn in this game.

" _I_ told her he'd died," Athos said, "I suppose that's how we realised the significance of the box he sent home. I would have left it where it was otherwise and probably never looked inside again."

"Yeah, that bit worked out ok," d'Artagnan said.

"Till Marcheaux turned up," Athos murmured.

"So, the other person she said she was working with was you." Athos said.

"Yeah," d'Artagnan replied. "She only knows me as her controller. Damn woman calls me "Hothead."

"Can't think why," Athos muttered, thinking back to the day d'Artagnan had first burst into his office, sparking with energy and various addictions. His impetuousness had always worried Athos, especially with regard to his near misses in his role in Special Forces.

Athos and Porthos shared a knowing look. Porthos put his hand over his mouth to stifle a grin.

"Well," d'Artagnan continued, not catching the look, "I had some quite heated conversations with her. She was in no hurry to draw it to a close. I think she liked her lifestyle too much and was spinning it out."

"Yeah, I can believe that," said Porthos, now under control.

After a few moments of shared reverie about Clarisse's predilection for the finer things in life, d'Artagnan continued.

"I only found out Thomas was your brother later. It was difficult getting my head around it."

"That time in Picardy!" Athos said. "I knew you had something on your mind."

"Yeah, I'd just found out. It was my job to make sure she delivered, but a lot of my time was spent watching Villier's and mopping up any contacts who we could persuade to give evidence against him. As soon as she located the diamonds though, we mobilised. I also needed to keep you safe," he explained.

"So you were watching my back." Athos said. It wasn't a question.

"Always," smiled d'Artagnan. "Sorry I couldn't tell you."

"I understand," Athos said.

"But what sort of woman is she - she is _married_ to that villain!" Athos suddenly said.

"No, she isn't," d'Artagnan smiled knowingly, and received a dual surprised look in response;

"Although _he_ thought she was. It was an arranged marriage; the Registrar was one of our people. It was easy to do, she'd already reeled Villiers in. She'd been with him for a while on and off. I don't think she found it too much of a hardship; he was out of the country for months at a time. In the end, she was getting pretty desperate though."

"How did you know where we were?" Porthos asked as an afterthought.

"She had our tracker in her shoe. But it was always going to end in that house, where the safe was."

Athos found himself distracted; wondering where Clarisse was. Apparently, she appeared to have slipped away as the ambulance left. If she wasn't actually married to Villiers, she had no claim on the house, or any of his finances, he thought, wondering what she would do now.

Aramis came in then, sporting a very bright Donald Duck surgical cap.

Athos glared at him.

"Athos, I had no choice!" said Aramis, in exasperation;

"Your brain was swelling, and even you cannot cope with a brain that is too big for your skull!"

He received the de la Fere death stare at that statement.

"Anyway," he bravely continued, "I've scheduled an MRI and until I have the results, you are staying here. We can't take any chances with your medical history."

Later that day, as he was propelled into the MRI machine under Aramis's gaze behind a glass window, Athos muttered some of his more colourful curses.

"Standing right here," Aramis said, flipping switches and adjusting his headphones.

Athos cursed on.

"Still hearing you; do you not understand the concept of the microphone, my friend?" Aramis grinned through the window.

"And I speak French," he added.

oOo

A few hours later, Athos was back in his room with Porthos.

Aramis came breezing in, and greeted both his brothers with a wide smile.

"You're good. Your enforced rest and the saline infusion did the trick. You can go home, mon ami," he said.

In reply, Athos stood, got dressed, and strode out of the room.

"Ingrate," Aramis muttered.

Porthos clapped him on the shoulder.

"He's grateful. Just in his own way," he chuckled.

oOo

To be continued ...


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER TWENTY THREE**

 **At home in Chelsea**

When the news broke about George Villier's arrest, it was indeed on every news channel. It seemed that a lot more sordid details would emerge over the coming weeks. Fortunately, Athos had been informed that his name would not be part of any investigation, and he was happy to go along with that. Clarisse had disappeared, although her name too had been withheld and she did appear to have earned a pardon if the silence that surrounded the whole affair was to be believed.

Aramis had declared him fit, although he was completely exhausted and needed to find his way, and so was considering taking a break of some sort.

He was standing in the kitchen, peering into his fridge absentmindedly when there was a knock at the door.

Slamming the fridge door shut, he walked to the hallway and opened it, and stared.

It was Clarisse.

"You've got a nerve," he said, but his mouth quirked all the same. It was good to see her.

She sauntered past him smiling and walked into the lounge. He followed her in, admiring the view as she walked ahead of him.

He was momentarily lost for words. So much had happened and they had shared an experience he could never have imagined being drawn into. He was not sure what he felt, and as she turned to face him, he was unsure of how to proceed. So he settled for a safe opening statement that he knew the answer to, and left the ball in her court;

"So they offered you a pardon in exchange for help taking Villiers down," he stated quietly, waving his hand toward the sofa.

"Hothead has brought you up to speed, I see," she smirked, but remained standing.

"He said you had an interesting skillset," he replied, smiling at her.

She raised an eyebrow in mock amusement.

"I'm a jewel thief," she said, the smirk still there. "A very good one," she added.

"And Villiers is now at Her Majesty's Pleasure because of that."

"Exactly. Win Win – and good riddance," she said, moving over to sit at the piano. She idly lifted the lid and allowed her fingers to trail across the top of the piano keys; light enough that none were depressed. The silence hung between them, as he watched her.

Losing patience, he leaned over and shut the lid. He took a step closer to her, standing over her until she looked up at him and met his gaze.

"You set a false trail that could have got us both killed," he said in a low voice.

She stood then, close enough to reach out and touch him, but she settled for placing a hand on her hip, dipping her head and then looking up at him through her long black eyelashes; a well practised stance, he thought.

"That's not why I'm here," she said finally said, giving up on her game.

He waited.

"I want them reunited," she said finally.

He sighed.

"You said it yourself, Athos, Milady has been trying to tell you. She's got unfinished business; she wants peace."

He thought back to his dream. Milady had wanted to leave her old life behind and for her and her soldier to start again. For some reason, he now knew that could not have happened, or she would not have been appearing to him whenever she could.

Athos shook his head.

"As a therapist, I can't do it. I'm too close." Although he knew it was definitely a loose end. It had to be resolved.

She held his gaze, pressing her lips together, waiting.

God, she was attractive.

He sighed again.

"Alright, we can try and reunite them, but let's reunite Anne and Olivier, when they were at their happiest. We don't know what happened between Milady and Athos, do we?"

"I agree," she murmured, after a few moments deliberation; "It felt so intense; I'm sure it's the right thing to do, and I can't stop thinking about it."

"I know," he murmured. "It was a good time for them wasn't it?"

"Do you think we can?" she asked him.

He did not immediately reply, but walked slowly across to the cabinet to pour them both a cognac. She could see he was thinking.

"We'll have to ask Treville, he's impartial. Well, almost." Athos finally said. "It's your trance though; you saw them both; their link is through you. I can sit in if you wish."

"Remember though, we don't know if any of this is real," he added, massaging his temples.

"Headache?" she asked him, moving around behind him and massaging his shoulders.

"Mmmmmm."

"You're supposed to believe in this," she whispered. "Humour me."

He could feel the soothing effect her fingers were having, as she applied gentle pressure. She moved her fingers slowly in circles for a few seconds, before repeating the movement, and he felt the tension begin to seep away.

"It doesn't matter what I think," he whispered, coming back to himself. "If I don't believe it, I don't let the client know."

"So, I am still a client?" she said seductively.

"You can't afford me," he murmured.

"Don't be so sure," she replied, moving off to wander around the room, pausing to look over the bookshelves. Pulling out a book, she hefted it before looking at the title;

"Strangers to Ourselves: The Adaptive Unconscious," she read out loud before looking over at him and pulling a face.

"So," she said, returning to the subject, "What do you think?"

He crossed the room purposefully and removed the book from her hand, returning it to its rightful place on the bookshelf.

But something inside him wanted this. There was definitely a connection between the French soldier and himself and Clarisse obviously wanted to redeem some semblance of her humanity.

"Alright, we have an accord; let's see if we can do this," Athos said.

She smiled, slow and self satisfied;

"We can - I think they want it as much as I do."

"As much as we do," he replied, quietly; relaxing now, the tension between them fading.

It seemed the perfect thing to do. The happiness the young couple had generated in the sunlit meadow of Clarisse's trance was in sharp contrast to the sadness Athos had described in his dream.

"Then, when it's over, where will you go?" he asked, looking toward the fireplace, avoiding her gaze.

"I don't know, France perhaps."

"Well, it doesn't rain as much, and the food is better ..." he replied.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps his dream was more prophetic then he thought.

He felt her gaze on him and turned to her.

He very slowly reached out and ran his finger along her jawline and down her neck. She leaned into his touch.

They stared at each long for a long moment.

"Want to stay?" he finally asked.

She smiled.

oOo

Despite all that had happened, Clarisse had to admit, she enjoyed hypnosis. This session was important to her. She needed to do this, not only to tie up loose ends, but she genuinely believed this would help to bring closure to both her and Athos. And, it no longer seemed strange to think that they may actually be able to reunite Ann and Olivier, and bring peace, finally, to Milady. Athos had briefed Treville as they needed to stop the visualisation before Anne was hung. This time, she would be aware of when that would happen, so would be able to help.

They all met at the Harley Street apartment the following weekend. Treville was his usual professional self; whatever he thought of Clarisse Villiers, he kept to himself.

Clarisse chose the same chair in the window as she had before and made herself comfortable; closing her eyes and relaxing, before she was asked. Treville took the chair opposite, and Athos sat a little apart, his role was purely as an observer.

Treville counted her down a series of steps, each descending step helping her to go one tenth deeper into a comfortable relaxed trance.

Stepping off the last step, she found herself at the beginning of a long tunnel. As directed, by Treville, she began to walk slowly down the tunnel, pulled by the lure of a bright light at the end of the tunnel.

It felt as if she was floating, and soon, she looked down, and saw that she was wearing a long blue dress. She was seeing through the eyes of Anne now, and as she held out her hand, she saw she was carrying a small bunch of blue flowers. It felt, strangely, perfectly natural.

She followed the tunnel toward the light at the end. Pausing, she stepped out into bright sunshine.

Then, she found herself walking through tall grass, strewn with wild flowers. When she raised her eyes, there was Olivier walking toward her.

It seemed to take a long time for him to reach her, but she was totally focussed on him. There was nothing else.

As he reached her, she held out her hand and offered the flowers.

He took them, so gently; his eyes told what his heart felt.

Her heart, equally full for this gentle man.

" _Swear that nothing will ever come between us."_

" _I swear._ "

Athos had told her that in order to change a painful memory, you just had to change an offending element of it.

And so, in her trance, _there was no tree_.

There would be no hanging.

The images blurred and faded, and she turned and made her way contentedly back along the tunnel, and climbed the stairs, following Treville's voice;

"...and at the count of eight, you will open your eyes, and at the count of ten, you will be fully wide awake...back here in this room ...feeling fine," Treville said quietly.

Clarisse opened her eyes, and smiled.

"Be happy Olivier," Athos whispered.

Later:

Porthos opened the door to the apartment. It was too quiet; his heart started beating faster, unsure of what he would find. He moved slowly through the hallway and opened the door to the lounge. As he did, the most beautiful music reached his ears.

There was Athos sitting at the piano, eyes closed, his long slim fingers moving effortlessly across the keys, gently swaying with the swell of the music.

Porthos stood stock still, mouth open, transfixed. It was the first time he had heard Athos play.

Slowly, his gaping mouth turned into a smile.

Athos opened his eyes slowly, taking in Porthos, but not missing a note.

"Franz Liszt ..." he murmured, as one hand crossed over the other.

"Un Sospiro."

Porthos took three steps to his left and sat down gently in the nearby armchair, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

Athos smiled, his fingers continuing to flow over the keys:

"He was a child prodigy; later apparently, a handsome man;

The term, "Lisztomania" was coined in the nineteenth century because women would throw themselves at him and tear his clothing for souvenirs," he said over the melody.

The music flowed on, Porthos transfixed.

When the last note floated away, Athos gently closed the lid over the keys, took a deep breath, smiled, and said:

"Did you bring wine?"

oOo

To be continued ...


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR**

Everything felt right.

Athos cleared his desk and his appointment book the following week. He was taking three months off, renting his office to a psycho-sexual counsellor, who would not, he thought, be short of clients in London. In the interim, the rest of the business could operate without him, he had no doubt.

Milady had gone, he was sure.

Appeased, perhaps, through karma; a life past needing to fulfil its purpose through another's later existence.

She had sought him out, her modern-day Athos. Her confession all those many, many years ago had not been heeded for some reason, and she had remained unfulfilled; the creature she could bear no longer.

Until a fateful day in 2005 when a sudden burst of explosive battlefield energy and his near death had thrown her onto his path once more and given her a second chance;

 _To be as she once was with him;_

 _To feel hope; instead of deadness in her heart."_

Perhaps now Clarisses's involvement and her positive energy could serve as a guiding light to keep them safe from their original path to destruction.

In warm sunshine, he walked the three miles back to Chelsea, where Porthos and Aramis were cooking a meal before seeing him off at the airport the next day. He was heading off to Geneva to stay with Constance for a few weeks. From there it was a one hour flight to Paris, and onward to the crash mansion for a break where Porthos and Aramis would be joining him. D'Artagnan was hoping to meet up with them as well, if it all went to plan. And for the first time, Treville would be there too, as thanks for his support.

"This is gonna be great," said Porthos gleefully as he carefully wrapped pastry around a large pate covered beef fillet.

He looked up and they were all watching him;

"Not this; the trip!" he laughed, sealing the edges of the pastry.

"I am sure your Beef Wellington will be great too, Porthos," Athos solemly assured him, looking at the pastry Regimental badge that Porthos intended to fix in place. He was obviously feeling sentimental.

"The only downside is that I am not fond of airports. This plate in my head seems to set off their detectors on a frequent basis." Athos murmured.

"Well, mon ami," said Aramis, "I have just taken possession of a 3D printer so we will soon be using plastic instead of metal; I can schedule you in, if you wish?"

Athos looked horrified.

"Well," said Porthos, "You've got the inside of your head sorted out, you might as well get the outside done as well," he laughed, tossing the dish into the oven and slamming the door shut with aplomb.

"As much as I trust Aramis," Athos replied, at his most imperious, "it will be a cold day in Hell before I submit my head to his hands again!"

Aramis suddenly lost his grip on the two plates he was carrying to the table, juggling them helplessly before losing the battle as they crashed loudly to the floor at his feet.

"Why ever not!" he asked in mock indignation.

oOo

The SWISS aircraft touched down at Geneva Airport ninety minutes after take-off, half an hour ahead of its estimated arrival time. The lake in the near distance sparkled in the bright sunshine. Fifteen minutes later, Athos walked through the automatic doors into the Arrivals Lounge, looking for Constance.

Instead, he saw a familiar face behind the barrier, smiling.

 _Ninon._

She leant forward and kissed his cheek, and then stepped back, her eyes on his, a smile on her lips.

"Hello Athos, welcome to Geneva. Constance asked me to collect you."

She looked... _softer_. Not a word he would have normally used for the self contained persona she usually exuded.

He smiled. Suddenly, he felt as if a weight had been lifted off him. It was such an unusual feeling he felt rooted to the spot. She saw he was still smiling, and held out an elegant hand.

"You're early; shall we go for a drink?"

"Yes," he said, his smile broadening. "I would like that."

He raised her hand to his lips and placed a light kiss on her fingers.

Constance was upping her game, he thought to himself.

He approved.

oOo

Meanwhile, as Athos was enjoying reacquainting himself with Ninon - on the other side of the world, Clarisse Villiers sat on a wide balcony, overlooking a magnificent blue bay.

She was feeling very pleased with herself.

Of course, there had been other items in George Villier's safe that he would not now need where he was currently residing.

When she had handed d'Artagnan the file he so desperately wanted, she had also taken the black velvet pouch that contained a variety of gems. That pouch now sat on the table in front of her – the precious stones spilling out on the small table, glittering in the Caribbean sun.

She was, after all, a jewel thief. And a very good one, she smiled to herself.

The pardon had been nice, but these gems had always been her goal.

"Here's to you Anne," she murmured, picking up her champagne.

"And to _you_ Milady," she smiled quietly to herself.

 _And to_ _me_ , she added, silently.

 _Always; to me._

 **The End**

 **A/N**

I do hope you enjoyed my nod to the Dumas novels in Part Three; two diamonds out of six given to the Queen were stolen and had to be retrieved before the King discovered them missing.

Franz Liszt – the term "Lisztomania" was a term coined during his time to explain the actions of his overzealous fans. Way before The Beatles, then.

The piano piece by Liszt "Un Sospiro" translates as "The Sigh." I thought it an appropriate piece to include as I am sure Athos would have heaved a sigh of relief when his adventure with Clarisse was finally over.

Please listen online and see if you enjoy the image of Athos playing this piece. I hope it brings the scene to life for you: _Please let me know, I'd love to hear from you._

All over the world, in towns and cities, Clinical Hypnotherapists have been working away for decades, helping people overcome their fears and phobias, and changing lives. Hypnosis is a force for good. And now, self hypnosis has a new, modern term: _mindfulness._ Always choose a therapist carefully; _who knows what dark secrets and deep emotions you have!_

Finally, sincere thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed and sent me messages (you know who you are) for this, my first AU story. I trust everything resolved to your satisfaction. I appreciate every one of you.

I may bring Athos the Hypnotherapist out to play again one day, if inspiration strikes. Promise to leave his head alone.

Best wishes to you all.


End file.
